


In Hell, We Stand By You

by Annaelle



Series: Unbecoming Everything You Are Not [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Avengers Family, Barnes Family, Basically an imagining of what would have happened, Bucky Always Turns Up, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: the First Avenger, Canon Related, Completely written, Depression, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Other: See Story Notes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve-centric, Stucky endgame, if Steve had been given 'real' help from the get-go, sorta-soulmates implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annaelle/pseuds/Annaelle
Summary: Steve wakes up alone, without Bucky, to a future he could never have imagined. He fights aliens, picks up boxing again, writes little notes that Bucky will never be able to read and struggles to find his place in this Brave, New World. He does not, thankfully, have to do it on his own.Steve Rogers-centric. Canon Divergent. Stucky Endgame.





	1. The One With the Wrong Garments

**Author's Note:**

> *waves shyly* Hi! I've been a huge fan for years, and I've been reading Stucky fanfics for... God, I don't even know how long, but I never took the leap to write one myself. I was always a little afraid I wouldn't do my boys justice. This idea, however, would not leave me alone, and with some encouragement of my dearest Juulna, I was able to get it written down. 
> 
> It's entirely written and just awaits editing and posting. Thank you to my darling Juulna, for giving me the courage to actually post this. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter One

_—————_

_The story of Captain America has been shrouded in myth and urban legends from the moment he became a prominent player upon the battlefield during one of mankind’s bloodiest and cruelest wars in recorded history. There seems to be no single conclusive source that will confirm or deny any of the impossible feats that have been attributed to the man, nor anyone alive that can attest to witnessing said feats._

_…the only thing that is, possibly, more mysterious than the figure of Captain America is the man behind the shield—a man whose full name is said will be released to the public in a few short weeks, on the fiftieth anniversary of our heroic Captain’s ultimate sacrifice, so that we may honor his memory as we should have been able to do for the past five decades._

_—_ Sofia Johnson _, ‘The Man Behind the Shield: Captain America, an exposé”,_ People Magazine _,_ 1995

_——————_

### S.H.I.E.L.D. Recovery room, New York City, New York, United States of America  
June 2011

### Steve

There was music playing, somewhere in the distance, a jingling tune that Steve couldn’t identify for the life of him. He felt _odd_ , ill at ease in his own body in a way he had not been since the first few days after he’d been given the serum.

His body felt simultaneously too big and too small, like it had in those excruciating few heartbeats in the chamber when he had been radiated with vita-rays. Like it had in the moment when his body was suspended between expanding and shrinking, falling apart at the seams while being knitted together again. His skin felt like it didn’t fit his body anymore, and he couldn’t figure out what had happened to make him feel like that again.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise his eyes were already open, and that he was blinking up at a stark white ceiling with some sort of fan that spun in lazy circles.

He felt unfocused and tired, and though he tried to look around the small, brightly lit room he had somehow found himself in, his entire body felt stiff and unused, and his muscles seemed to protest even the smallest movement.

Something felt _wrong_ about the room—it looked much like one of those recovery rooms in the SSR headquarters, but not quite. The details didn’t add up, and the sounds that filtered through felt _too_ loud—like a cacophony of superfluous sounds from New York that had been dialed up until it was all he could hear.

He blinked when he noticed an open window, sunlight filtering through the thin, gauzy curtain and falling onto the bed where he lay—

But he couldn’t feel its warmth.

He couldn’t smell _anything_ ¸ and that, more than anything, unnerved him. Before the serum, he’d been sick constantly and had suffered from a near-permanent stuffed nose, but after he’d received it, he’d been able to smell _everything_ —even miles away.

It had been hell at times, especially when he and the Commandos were sent on stealth missions that went on for weeks without much room for bathing and cleanliness.

Knowing that he couldn’t smell anything but the dull, stale scent of old bandages and recently unearthed sheets unnerved him more than he could put into words, because he could _hear_ the city, even as off as it sounded, and he could _hear_ murmured conversations that blended into one another until he couldn’t tell one word from another anymore.

It was… _wrong_.

He sat up slowly, biting back a groan at the ache in his joints and the strain in his muscles as he did.

Before he had the chance to move, the door opened and a woman stepped in, a pleasant but bland smile on her lips, and Steve figured she was supposed to be some sort of nurse.

He noticed immediately though, that her hair was not done up in the traditional curled bun he had seen his mother don hundreds of times, instead hanging loose over her shoulders in odd, wavy curls unlike any hairstyle he had seen women in professional settings wear before.

“Good morning,” she offered with a kind smile, though there was a note of humor in her voice. She glanced at the watch on her wrist—too large, too shabby to be a woman’s—and added, “Or should I say afternoon?” Steve watched, a feeling of unease curling in the pit of his stomach, as she stepped closer to the foot of the bed he was still seated on.

As she stepped did, his eyes were drawn to her attire, and it struck him just how ill-fitting her clothes were. Her blouse was bunched awkwardly into her skirt and her tie was broad, like a man’s tie should be and, though his cheeks flushed and embarrassment burned through his veins when he noticed, her brassiere did not look like any he had ever seen Peggy or any of the showgirls wear.

Something was _wrong_.

For some reason, he was being held in an odd facsimile of a recovery room, with a woman who was—poorly—pretending to be a nurse. It seemed like too much of an effort for Hydra to organize something on this scale, and Steve was fairly certain that after Schmidt had… _disintegrated_ , for a lack of a better word, Hydra had far bigger things to concern themselves with than keeping Captain America in a _recovery room_ of all places.

If Hydra _had_ found him, they’d have tossed him in a dark, damp cell.

And yet…

“Where am I?” he demanded, slowly pushing himself up from the bed—with a mattress that was softer and smoother than anything he had ever felt before—as he assessed the room, a little disgruntled to find the only secure point of exit was the door the woman had entered through.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City,” she replied immediately, her voice pleasant and smooth, but Steve had been part of show business long enough to recognize when someone recited lines from a script. There was enough intonation in her voice to pass of her words as genuine, but the way her expression did not change whatsoever and the way she replied almost before he had finished asking the question in the first place raised his hackles.

He might not know what was going on, but he was _not_ going to take it lying down.

“Where am I, _really_?” he insisted, stepping directly towards her, not above using the sheer size of his body to intimidate this strange woman into telling him the truth.

Before she could respond again—undoubtedly with more well-rehearsed lies—the door behind her flew open and another woman stepped in. Steve gaped at her, because he had never seen a woman dressed as boldly as she was, nor had he ever seen a woman wear this many weapons—and he didn’t doubt that she carried more that he hadn’t yet clocked.

She wore _tight_ black trousers that made him blush even as he tore his eyes away from the way they accentuated her shapely, muscled legs, only to have his gaze linger on her torso, likewise clad in tight black fabric that accentuated her figure in ways even Peggy had not been bold enough to try. She wore several firearms and had a knife strapped to her thigh, and Steve had _no idea_ what was going on anymore.

“We tried your way, Van Zandt,” the woman said, shoving at the oddly dressed nurse. “Told you he wouldn’t fall for it. Go brief Fury. I’ll take it from here.”

Van Zandt—assuming that was her name—seemed to consider the other woman, opening her mouth in protest, Steve supposed, before she snapped it shut at the glare the other woman shot her way. She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin as she stared the redhead down, and Steve was struck by the sudden flare of pain from the throbbing ache that had lodged itself beneath his breastbone the moment Bucky had fallen.

The way the dark-haired woman moved was eerily similar to the way Bucky had, when he’d been trying to intimidate bullies into backing down, or when he’d squared off against Howard when the older man tried to imply that Bucky or Steve weren’t smart because they’d not been able to afford college.

He watched with interest as the redheaded woman eventually withered beneath the other woman’s glare—it had worked miracles when Bucky had done it too, his mind supplied unhelpfully—drooping out of the room with the distinct air of a kicked puppy.

 “Captain,” the new woman spoke again as she turned back towards him, a genuine smile on her lips, though he could see something akin to wonder lingering just beneath the surface of her expression as well. “I apologize for the poor show-and-tell.” She waved her hand at the room in general, and Steve wondered if he was supposed to say something about that—

She continued before he could, though, gesturing towards the bed while she pulled out a chair for herself. “Please, sit. I will try to explain what is happening, but I need you to tell me what the last thing you remember is first.”

“I—” Steve stuttered, plopping back down on the bed ungracefully as he stared at her. “The Valkyrie. Schmidt… _disintegrated_ and I… I didn’t have time to land the plane, so I—”

_Cold. So, so cold. Pain. He can’t breathe—_

“Captain?”

The woman’s voice abruptly drew him back from the memory, and he swallowed thickly, shame curdling in the pit of his belly for showing such weakness. He did not want to give the woman any indication he might be suffering from battle fatigue—it was a weakness he could not afford to show.

“I put her down in the water,” he concluded quietly, casting his gaze down to his own hands to avoid seeing the look on the woman’s face.

“No loss of memory, then,” she deduced gently, offering him a kind smile when he dared look up again. “A few weeks ago, a recovery team in the Arctic Circle came across a large object in the ice that sent their radars haywire. Upon further investigation, they realized it was a warplane, and when they entered, they found your body.”

Steve flinched, but shook his head when she paused in her explanation. “No,” he insisted. “Tell me.”

He met her gaze head-on—and was oddly struck by the icy blue color of her eyes, a shade that was all too similar to the color of _Bucky’s_ —until she nodded and offered him a quick grin.

“It took some maneuvering, but they determined that your heart was still beating. We’re still not entirely sure what happened, but the generally accepted theory is that the serum kept you alive, and the ice preserved you until we could find you.”

“Who are you?” he blurted, twisting his fingers together in a nervous gesture he usually tried to suppress. “Where am I really?”

The woman offered him a wry smile and leaned back in the seat and seemed to take a moment to think about her words before she replied. “You’re in New York City,” she began, holding up her hand to stall him when he opened his mouth to protest again. “You’re in a specially built recovery room inside S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, which is an intelligence agency that developed out of the SSR after the war. You’re here because the higher ups wanted to break the news to you gently. S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division.”

Steve couldn’t help the snort that fell from his lips as she explained the acronym, shaking his head a little as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger across the bridge of his nose. “Someone _really_ wanted that to spell S.H.I.E.L.D., didn’t they?” he said wryly, smiling a little at the entirely undignified snort that fell from the woman’s lips.

“Yeah,” she chuckled, lips curled up into a broad grin. “From what I hear, they really did.”

They were silent for a moment while Steve let her words sink in, before he swallowed thickly and asked, “You said, ‘after the war’… Does that mean—is it—did we?”

He couldn’t quite get the words past his lips, _terrified_ of what the answer might be, but it seemed she knew what he was trying to ask anyway. “We won, Captain, in no small amount thanks to the sacrifices you and your men made during ’44 and ’45.”

The words comfort him for a long, blissful heartbeat before the way she worded her sentence finally hit him. Bucky had been the one reading any science-fiction book he could get his hands on, had been the one _devouring_ Brave New World until the copy his mother had gotten him had been frayed at the edges, but Steve _had_ listened, every now and then, when Bucky talked about it.

There was usually only _one_ reason people named years the way she did.

_God, please_. _Please, no._

“What year is it?” he asked slowly, voice hoarse and trembling. He’d been afraid to hear about the outcome of the war, but that fear paled in comparison to the outright _terror_ he experienced while waiting for her reply.

Her smile turned strained and a little sympathetic before she replied, “2011.”

The words felt like a blow to the chest, leaving him breathless in a way he hadn’t been since the serum cured his asthma, and his head felt like it was spinning as he tried to comprehend the magnitude of what she’d told him— _2011_.

_That would be—sixty-six years—Peggy—Dum Dum—Gabe—all of his friends—everyone—_

_Bucky._

“Captain? Steve?”

He snapped his head up at the sound of his given name, and he suddenly realized his breath was wheezing in his lungs and his breathing was far too fast and he was slightly lightheaded. He hadn’t realized he was falling headfirst into an anxiety attack, and while it wasn’t the first he’d had, it was the first time he had to deal with one without his mother, Bucky, or even Peggy to talk him down.

“Steve, it’s okay. I’m going to help you calm down, alright? Just listen to my voice. I’m gonna count, and I want you to try to match your breathing to it, okay?” He barely had time to nod before the bed sagged a little beside him and her hands were suddenly curled around his, her voice soothing and calm in his ear. “One… Two… Three…”

His breath slowed more easily than he had thought it would, and before long, the world had stopped spinning and he felt less like he was going to choke on thin air. He didn’t know how long they sat there, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles in a soothing gesture wholly like Bucky had done hundreds of times over the course of their lives together.

“What do I do now?” he whispered, the words slipping from him before he could stop them, before he could censor himself, before he could slip back into the Captain America mindset and make the woman forget the embarrassing display of weakness she had witnessed.

She didn’t reply for a moment, clearly deep in thought as well, before she offered him a smile and said, “Well, if you’re up for a field trip, I’m pretty sure I know someone who’ll be thrilled to see you.”

He eyed her speculatively for a moment, briefly trying to think of _anyone_ he knew that would even be _alive_ anymore, once again struck by how much she reminded him of Bucky—no matter how hard he tried not to think about him, because he _would_ fall apart if he thought about him again—before he nodded.

Anything was more appealing than sitting in this room, alone with his thoughts.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he blurted when he stood, following the young woman—who was some kind of agent, he was sure, with this S.H.I.E.L.D.—to the door. “I appreciate it, Miss…” He faltered, quite suddenly realizing he had no idea what her name actually was.

She turned at the sound of his hesitation, and for the first time, he saw a crack in the confident façade she had portrayed so far. “…Barnes,” she finally said, and his heart jumped to his throat while the bottom of his stomach fell away.

“Rebecca Barnes.” 


	2. The One With the Dog Tags (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to get this thing on the road! I am currently in my exam period too, so while there shouldn't be any delays in updating, since everything in this part has been written, if it is delayed, you will know why :D 
> 
> Thank you for the lovely response so far!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and the rest of the story! 
> 
> Next update on Friday!
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Two

——— _——_

_Much has been said on the subject of Steve Rogers and his journey of becoming Captain America since information on Project Rebirth was released in 1995, on the fiftieth anniversary of his noble sacrifice. A subject that is, however, very seldom discussed, is the relationship Steve Rogers shared with his sergeant and childhood best friend, James Buchanan Barnes._

_…Academics and numerous sources confirm that the two men were closer than brothers, and that, when the two men were put into a fight together, whether on the streets of Brooklyn or in the war in Europe, they were unstoppable._

_Sergeant Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan, non-commissioned officer in the U.S. Army and part of Captain America’s Howling Commandos said, “Cap and Sarge were two peas in a pod. Didn’t even need to talk to know what they were gonna do.”_

_…Sergeant Barnes’ family has been notoriously close-lipped about the relationship between the two men, but it has not stopped speculation that there was far more than platonic love between the two iconic soldiers. Such rumors have found traction in the face of previously unseen footage of Captain America and the Howling Commandos, which shows the Captain and Sergeant exchanging looks and touches that are being interpreted as more than platonic by various sources._

_…The question remains: did we know Steve Rogers at all? Was Captain America merely a façade behind which a queer man hid in a time where his sexuality was grounds to have him killed?_

_—_ A.J. Branwell, _Captain America and Steve Rogers: the man, the myth, the legend,_ 2001

_—————_

### 6th avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States of America

### Steve

He still felt off-kilter, unbalanced in a way he couldn’t quite contribute to any one factor. He supposed waking up seventy years into the future after essentially committing suicide to save his country—and because he was _so_ , _so_ tired and he just wanted to _go home_ —did that to a man, but it was an unsettling feeling, and Steve had never dealt with unsettling feelings very well.

The last time he’d felt this unsettled had been when he’d had to introduce Peggy to Bucky and had try to find a balance between the two loves of his life because they had been born in a world that prevented them from being with those they loved most of all.

Of course, it had turned out exceptionally well, but that was neither here nor there.

This situation was _far_ from similar, even if his levels of anxiety were.

He couldn’t even stare out the window, because the world looked so radically different from the way he remembered it that it’d probably send him right back into another anxiety attack—and three was more than enough for a single day.

Rebecca—because calling her Agent Barnes had nearly made him vomit, and calling her ‘Becca’, like she had requested, seemed overly familiar and far too soon—had been kind and discrete, and Steve had been a little bit awed when she had essentially cussed out each and every agent who’d tried to stand in their way when they’d left S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, and a little bit nauseous when he realized that all he could see when he looked at her, now that he knew her name was Barnes, was Bucky.

Everything about her, from the shade of her hair to the icy blue of her eyes to the way she leaned slightly to the right when she was talking to someone she didn’t like and wanted to get away from—

 _Everything_ reminded him of Bucky and it _ached_.

It ached in a way that left him breathless and wishing for asthma attacks, because at least when he’d had those, he’d had Bucky with him to hold his hand and help him through it.

Now, trapped in a futuristic car, travelling through the city he’d died to save but that looked and _felt_ nothing like it anymore, all he seemingly had was Agent Rebecca Barnes. She certainly seemed friendly enough, but she resembled Bucky _so much_ it actually _pained_ him to look at her—

He glanced out the window again and winced, his stomach _twisting_ painfully, because he’d _loved_ this city, before and during the war, so much he’d been willing to die for it—even though he had barely even been alive at that point, because the biggest part of him had died with Bucky—and now, he was afraid that without Peggy, without the Commandos, without _Bucky…_

Nothing would be enough.

“Where are you taking me?”

The words were the first he’d spoken since Rebecca had ushered him into the car, and his voice felt raw and unused, even though he’d only been silent for half an hour at most.

She didn’t reply right away, and Steve watched, curious and wary, as she drew her lower lip between her teeth, chewing at it exactly like Bucky always had when he was nervous and stalling for time. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and though Steve had only known the woman for a few hours at most, he could already tell she was a little unnerved by how _direct_ he was.

She reminded him of Peggy in a way; a woman in a man’s world, tough as nails and awe-inspiring, but soft and kind when they were given the room to be.

He could tell she was unsure of what to tell him, but the way her entire demeanor softened when she glanced towards him spoke of a kind of wonder and trust he hadn’t been afforded in a long time.

“Brooklyn,” she finally admitted, eyes darting back towards the road as she spoke, but Steve didn’t miss the way she fidgeted with the leather clad steering wheel. “We’re going to Brooklyn.”

He frowned, but her breathing remained even and she didn’t fidget beyond that initial little twitch.

Not a lie, then.

“What’s in Brooklyn?” he demanded as a follow-up, mentally trying to list reasons _why_ she’d be taking him to _Brooklyn,_ turning his torso her way so he could keep her in his line of sight constantly. She had been nothing but kind and honest to him, and he had no reason to suspect she would break that tentative trust, but he had not made it as far as he had in life by relying on dumb luck and trusting the wrong people.

Though he was sure that if Bucky were here, he’d argue that the _only_ reason Steve got as far as he did in life was by relying on dumb luck.

The thought made him smile fondly, though the brief moment of happiness slipped away the second he realized Rebecca had parked the car and was now watching him with an indecipherable expression. He remained quiet as he returned her steady gaze, keeping his expression void of emotion as he arched an eyebrow and waited for her reply.

“Home,” she finally sighed, shaking her head a little as she slumped back into her seat. “Brooklyn is home, Steve. I’m trying to… I don’t know, give you back as much of your home as I can.”

Before he could reply, she undid her seatbelt with a swift gesture and stepped out of the car. Steve remained in his seat for a few long, drawn-out heartbeats as he attempted to process what Rebecca could possibly have meant with that.

“What does that _mean_?” he cried out, struggling with the seatbelt—it took him embarrassingly long to remember how to unclick the admittedly simple safety system—as he stumbled out of the car, glaring a little when Rebecca laughed at him for stumbling over his own feet.

“I told you my name,” she said instead, pushing her hands into her jacket’s pockets as he stepped up beside her. “I didn’t tell you that I was named after my grandmother. She raised me when my parents…” she trailed off, and then shifted uncomfortably before waving her hand dismissively. “Whatever, not important. They wouldn’t take care of me anymore, so my grandmother took me in and raised me, and she always told me stories about you…” she trailed off again and eyed him speculatively before she gently continued, “…about you and uncle Bucky, too. How you two were the bravest two men she had ever known.”

His breath left his lungs in a _whoosh_ , and he felt like she’d punched him square in the solar plexus, because it was one thing to know, intellectually, that an entire lifetime had passed—even though he was still struggling to wrap his head around it—but it was another to _actually_ think about it, to realise he and Bucky and the Commandos had been _stories_ to other people, that they’d been figures to look up to.

“Steve? Are you okay?”

He breathed in sharply, drawing his gaze back up to Rebecca as he swallowed thickly. “You were named after your grandmother,” he reiterated hoarsely, studying her features more closely than he had allowed himself to so far, searching for the similarities he knew he’d find—the long, straight slope of her nose, the unique color of her eyes that Steve had only ever seen on Bucky and his father, the way that she was only ten, maybe fifteen centimeters shorter than him, tall and beautiful like all the Barneses—to _know_.

“You’re Becky’s granddaughter,” he breathed, struggling desperately to wrap his head around little Becky Barnes being old enough to have a _granddaughter_. She’d been seventeen when he’d last seen her, barely on the cusp of becoming a woman, sweet and innocent and sincere, like she’d been when she was six and he and Bucky had been fifteen and she’d promised to marry him so he could be part of the family forever and he’d never have to leave them.

He had, admittedly, been too shocked when she revealed her name to really _consider_ her relation to Bucky, to the family—he’d been too overwhelmed by _everything_ to really think about it.

He glanced towards the house Rebecca had parked in front of, heart pounding as he realized where she’d taken him.

The closest thing to home she could give him.

“She’s in there?”

Rebecca nodded, her smile soft and sympathetic, and his fingers twitched towards his neck involuntarily, curling around the familiar warm metal of his dog tags reflexively.

It was a habit he’d developed shortly after Bucky had… _fallen_. They’d exchanged their dog tags right after they’d marched back into camp and Steve had been chewed out by both Peggy and Colonel Philips.

It had started raining and Steve had been cold, miserable and wet by the time he’d made it back to his tent, the euphoric high he’d been on after the men had cheered for him long dissipated, and he hadn’t expected to find Bucky in his tent. He’d _never_ thought the other man would kiss him as soon as the tent flaps had flapped closed behind him, but he had not protested whatsoever.

If he focused hard enough, he was sure he could still feel the silky strands of Bucky’s hair between his fingers. Steve cherished the memory of that kiss, of the way Bucky had gasped against his lips when Steve had tugged on his short hair, of the way they’d _had_ to stop, because while the tent had provided them with a modicum of privacy, it was far from ideal.

They couldn’t afford to be caught with their hands down each other’s pants.

He cherished the way Bucky had demanded to exchange their dog tags, demanded to be given a piece of Steve to carry with him always—as if he didn’t already own Steve’s heart.

Steve had laughed, called Bucky a sap, and had immediately complied.

He tugged urgently until the chain slipped from beneath the tight white shirt he’d been changed into, so he could press his fingers into the familiar curves and grooves that spelled out Bucky’s name, that reminded him that it had all been real and th—

He stopped dead, glancing down towards his dog tags in confusion and with growing horror.

 _Rogers, Steven G._  
987654320       T42      O  
                                   C

“No,” he breathed, rubbing his fingers over the grooves and indents in a desperate plea that he was seeing things, that he was just imagining his own name written on the tags where it should’ve been Bucky’s name and information. “No, no, this isn’t—where—” He turned towards Rebecca desperately, breath wheezing in his lungs and tears burning in his eyes. “These aren’t mine. Where are they?”

“I don’t—”

“No,” Steve exclaimed, ripping the fake tags from his neck and shaking them at her, desperate to make her _understand_ , she needed to _know_ ¸ he _needed_ the tags back, they were _all_ he had— “These are _not_ mine,” he insisted. “Mine were Bucky’s. These aren’t the ones I was wearing, I want— _where_ are they?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, clutching at the fake tags he’d shoved at her with a frankly bewildered expression. “I don’t know, but I’ll—” She glanced down at the tags and shook her head. “I’ll try to find out. If they were with you when we found you, I’ll find them for you. I promise.” She looked him straight in the eye as she offered the promise, and he could _see_ the sincerity in her eyes.

He blinked rapidly against the frustrated, fearful tears that still burned in his eyes, taking a few deep, shuddering, steadying breaths before he nodded shakily and released the death grip he had on the tags.

“Thank you,” he offered unsteadily, taking a step back as he concentrated on getting his breathing back under control. His neck felt strangely naked without the solid, comforting feel of his tags on his skin, but the chain that now limply dangled from Becca’s fingers held no value to him. They weren’t _his_.

‘ _She’ll find them_ ’, he assured himself silently. ‘ _She’ll get them back for me_.’

They remained quiet for a moment before Rebecca gestured towards the modest brownstone in front of them. “You ready to go in?”

Steve looked up at the door and swallowed thickly as he saw the small plaque on the letterbox, tracing his eyes across the silver letters that spelled out ‘ _Barnes-Proctor family’_. His heart was pounding and he felt a little lightheaded, but he _wanted_ to see Becky, and he _wanted_ to feel like he _belonged_ somewhere—but he was _so scared_.

He hadn’t seen her since before he’d shipped out, and he hadn’t even been allowed to send her and the rest of the Barnes family letters to tell them he was doing okay. He didn’t even know if they’d ever learned what’d happened to him and Bucky.

“Yeah,” he breathed finally, steadying his trembling hands. “Yeah, let’s go.”


	3. The One With all the Emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* Hi there! 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has already left kudos and comments, to everyone who has enjoyed and liked this little thing so far :D A special big thank you goes to the lovely anonymous reader who recced my fic to TheStuckyLibrary on Tumblr! I'm so touched, and I just want to say thank you so much! 
> 
> Now, without further ado, the next chapter :D 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Three

—————

_James David Proctor, 65, former New York State Senator, is a man of few words._

_He has been credited with passing several of New York’s most progressive laws during his time in office, and he has recently been voted ‘most popular senator of the state’ by People Magazine._

_…Senator has always been notoriously tightlipped concerning his private life, though his wife, Rebecca Proctor, is almost as famous as her husband. One of the first women to fight for her right to be allowed to study medicine, to become a doctor and later a surgeon, Rebecca Proctor has long since ascended above her initial fame as James “Bucky” Barnes’ little sister._

_…couple recently celebrated their thirtieth anniversary and announced their vow renewal two months ago—and here we are!_

_The ceremony is set up simply, with an exclusive guest list that includes some entirely monumental guests, including Margaret “Peggy” Carter, co-founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. and close personal friend of Rebecca Barnes-Proctor, and her wife, alongside several big name Hollywood stars._

_…at age fifty-five, Rebecca Proctor, née Barnes, is stunning in her bespoke Vera Wang gown, and our favorite senator looks appropriately wowed by his wife. “I have no words for how much I love you,” Proctor said during his vows. “I count my lucky stars every day for having met you. Here’s to another thirty years.”_

_…in her speech addressing her guests after the ceremony, Rebecca Proctor thanks her friends for standing with her and her husband in our ever-changing world. “My brother’s absence remains a gaping hole in our lives,” she said in response to what she thinks her brother would say about her life now. “But I think he’d be proud of what we’ve accomplished. I miss him, and Steve, every day.”_

_—Richard Gerhardt, Vanity Fair, ‘Barnes-Proctor vow renewal’,_ 1981

_—————_

### Barnes-Proctor residence, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States of America

### becca

“ _Steve_.”

Agent Rebecca “Becca” Barnes was far from innocent.

She had been kicked out by her father at the tender age of eleven, after asking if it was alright that she wanted Jessica Thomas to be her girlfriend because Becca had been infatuated with the way the other girl’s nose wrinkled when she focused really hard, and she had the prettiest shade of red hair Becca had ever seen.

She’d lived on the street for two weeks before her grandmother had found her.

She’d seen things she would never unsee, things that haunted her nightmares still, despite the considerably _bigger_ demons she had faced since then.

She’d joined the Army at eighteen, fresh out of high school, still starry-eyed and idealistic to a fault despite the rough year she’d endured as a child, after her grandparents had taken her in, before she had learned to accept her father's actions. She’d been raised with stories of Captain America and his Howling Commandos, stories of how those men had made _heroes_ out of themselves and fought to defend their country, and she’d _wanted that_.

She’d wanted to be a _hero_ , she’d wanted to live up to her family’s reputation.

Bucky Barnes had been her fucking _idol_ , and she’d wanted to be just like him.

She could’ve done without her own stint as a POW, but she had _grown_ immensely during her service and she’d _shone_. She’d been _good_. She’d shot up through the ranks faster than anyone had expected her to, but it had come at a cost.

She had, once again, seen things she’d never unsee.

The sight of Captain America falling to his knees before her grandmother’s chair in tears, however, his broad shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sobs as he curled his upper body as small as he could into her grandmother’s lap, was something she never thought she’d witness.

The man himself had proven _quite_ the study of contradictions in the few hours she had known him, with moments of pure, unadulterated emotion so intense it nearly _bled_ out of him, and moments of pure stoicism, where she wouldn’t have been able to read him if her life depended on it.

It almost felt like he was warring between two separate identities—Captain America, and she suspected, the Steve Rogers her grandmother had always told her about. It was partly the reason she had immediately called her grandmother when she had learned they’d found him, and took the man to her as soon as he’d woken up.

She couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was going through—returning home after being captured by Al ’Qaeda couldn’t compare to crashing a plane and waking up in a different century—but she _knew_ that sometimes, all someone needed was something familiar.

She couldn’t take him home, but she could at least give him part of his family back.

The edges of the dog tags he had ripped from his own neck pressed into the skin of her palm, and for a moment, she was hit by the same bewilderment she had felt earlier, when Captain Rogers had nearly burst into tears while trying to convince her they were the wrong dog tags.

She believed him, most definitely, but she had _no_ clue who would have been stupid enough to give him _fake_ dog tags in the first place—and who hadn’t even taken enough care to _look_ at said tags to realise it wasn’t Steve Rogers’ name on them.

She’d have to tread carefully when trying to find out what had happened to the original ones.

“Oh, Stevie,” her grandmother cooed, drawing Becca from her thoughts for a moment, rubbing her fingers through the tall man’s hair as he cried, his broad shoulders shaking with the strength of his sobs. “What did they do to you?”

Steve only cried harder in reply, hugging his ridiculously muscled arms around her grandmother’s thin waist, and Becca almost wanted to hug him too, because she could almost _feel_ how much pain he was in, and she remembered the stories her grandmother had told her as she was growing up.

Contrary to popular belief, her grandmother had learned that Steve Rogers had been the one to receive Erskine’s serum and to become Captain America in 1948, shortly after she and Peggy Carter met and became friends. Becca’s own mother hadn’t even been born yet, but her grandmother had told her about the moment she’d found out so many times that Becca could imagine it with crystal clarity.

The Barneses had searched for Steve for years after he had dropped off his valuables with them and told them he’d be back soon. Winifred Barnes, her grandmother’s mother, had blamed herself for Steve’s disappearance, and had grieved the loss of two sons rather than one, even before she’d learned what had really happened to him.

Becca got the sense that Steve would never have believed how much the Barneses considered him part of the family, but the way he’d always been spoken of in their house had made that more than clear.

Becca had to admit she’d been more than a little starstruck when she’d first seen the man, but it had only taken a few seconds of looking at those big, confused blue eyes to stop seeing Captain America and to start seeing the Steve Rogers her grandmother had always told her about.

_“The world wasn’t a kind place for people like Steve Rogers. He was too kind, too honorable—a heart too big for his body. Even disregarding his sexuality… he was skinny and sickly and stuck his nose in all the wrong business with all the right intentions. It got his heart broken every time. His nose, too, on a few occasions.”_

A young man with too much heart in a world that was categorically invested in taking advantage of him.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Her grandmother’s stern words tore her from her thoughts again, and she was almost amused to see Steve now sitting up, his chin grasped in her grandmother’s fragile fingers, tear tracks streaked across his cheeks as he looked up at her.

“I’m so tired,” he whimpered, the sound wounded and small, and Becca’s heart squeezed painfully at the sight of one of the most powerful, most _good_ people in the world looking _so_ heartbroken. “I thought it’d be over.” His voice broke and more tears rolled down his cheeks as he choked, “I thought Bucky would be waiting for me, with my ma… my dad. I thought I was done, that I didn’t have to fight anymore.”

 _That,_ more than anything, hit home for Becca.

She _knew_ , intimately, what that was like. It had not happened often, but she had hit moments after returning to the U.S. when she had felt so despondent and _alone_ that all she had wanted was for everything to _end_. She hadn’t wanted to _fight_ anymore, and she’d been so low she hadn’t even wanted to _breathe_ anymore.

Her grandmother had been the one to help her get through that, had been the one to look up which VA she could go to, had given her therapists’ phone numbers, and had talked her into accepting the job with S.H.I.E.L.D. when it had come up.

Becca was almost sure she owed her life to her grandmother.

To hear Steve Rogers echo the thoughts she had so struggled with herself was absolute madness.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” her grandmother scolded, huffing the way she only did when she was exasperated. “That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. You know Bucky would whoop your ass if he heard you. He didn’t die so you could give up at _your_ earliest convenience.”

Becca winced, because even she knew that _that_ was below the belt, but before she could butt in, Steve had straightened, shooting her grandmother the most comically betrayed look she had ever seen. She would laugh, but she could tell that Steve was genuinely _hurt_. “I didn’t give up, Becky,” he exclaimed, making to pull his hands away from her grandmother’s until she tightened her grip on him.

“Didn’t you?” her grandmother asked gently, so gently that Steve flinched, and Becca couldn’t _stand_ to watch them anymore. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she left the room quietly, and she sighed as she recognized the caller ID.

Great.

“Agent Barnes,” she said curtly as she answered, mentally preparing herself for the scolding of her life—she _had,_ after all, taken Captain _fucking_ America off of S.H.I.E.L.D. premises without express permission from her superiors and she _knew_ Fury wasn’t going to like that he wasn’t the one to tell Steve what he wanted him to know.

“Agent Barnes,” Fury enunciated so slowly and calmly it set her teeth on edge. “I assume you know why I have to waste my _valuable_ time on the phone with you?”

Becca suppressed the urge to wince and glanced towards the living room, where Captain Rogers was still kneeling before her grandmother. Becca hadn’t been a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. for very long—no more than a year and a half—and she was able to count her run-ins with Director Fury on one hand, but she had learned, quite early on, that the Director might not outwardly appear invested in a whole lot of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s daily affairs, but he definitely liked to run a tight ship.

She guessed losing control over Captain America stung quite a bit.

“I don’t presume to know anything,” she said drily, leaning back against the wall slightly, flipping the fake dog tags between her fingers idly. “But I assume it’s because Agent Van Zandt came crying to you. Captain Rogers was approximately fifty seconds away from bashing in some faces. I did you a favor, Director, by offering him honesty.”

Fury harrumphed, but didn’t reply otherwise, and unease curled in the pit of her stomach at that.

“I assure you he’s safe, sir,” she finally added. “He’s right where he needs to be.”

“Where he needs to be is in my debrief, Agent,” Fury hissed impatiently. “We cannot afford for Captain America to be compromised. He could be a very valuable asset.” Hearing him refer to the Captain—to _Steve_ —as such rankled, and she resented being spoken to as if she was just another pawn on a life-sized chessboard too.

Steve wasn’t Captain America right now, wasn’t an _asset_ to S.H.I.E.L.D. or even capable of deigning himself as such at this moment. He was a twenty-something veteran who’d just lived through the most traumatic event of his life—and one of the most traumatic _wars_ —and was trying to figure out where he fit into the world. She could relate, and she was not going to let S.H.I.E.L.D.—or anyone—take advantage of him.

“With all due respect, _sir_ , what Captain Rogers needs right now is to be as far away from S.H.I.E.L.D. and you as possible,” she said sternly, heart pounding as she spoke. “I’ll report in in 48 hours. Oh. And if someone would be kind enough to locate Captain Rogers’ _real_ dog tags, that would be fantastic.” With that, she hung up, her heart racing in her chest as she considered what Fury could, and likely would, do to her for taking that tone with him.

For taking Captain America from him.

Fuck.

She thumped her head back against the wall softly and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing briefly that her life could go back to the way it had been 24 hours ago, when her biggest concern had been how to convince the cute redhead from Accounting to go on a date with her.

Soft laughter drew her attention back to the living room, where she had left her grandmother and Steve, and she couldn’t help but peer around the corner curiously, something deep in her chest clenching as she caught sight of Steve laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks as her grandmother patted at his cheek with a kind of grin Becca had never seen on her face before.

She’d not seen her grandmother smile at all—let alone _grin_ —since grandpa had died.

She swallowed thickly, but couldn’t stop the bittersweet smile that tugged at her own lips.

Steve Rogers was just like her. He was just a young man, caught up in things much bigger than himself, trying to fight his way out of them, and he might be a lot more trouble than he was worth, but…

He was family.

Barneses never left anyone behind. Becca was not going to leave Steve behind either.

 _Someone_ needed to watch his six.

She was pretty sure she was up for the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr! You can find me as Cuthian :D 
> 
> See you all on Tuesday for the next chapter :D


	4. The One with the Dog Tags (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> So, since my out of town best friend is coming over tomorrow and I'll likely not be anywhere near my computer, I decided to upload the new chapter today :D 
> 
> A little longer too, but a shitton more feels (especially Stucky feels). 
> 
> Thank you for all the love so far! Hope you guys enjoy this!
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Four

—————

_After the resounding success of last year’s anniversary exhibit on Captain America, the Smithsonian has now announced the exhibit will be returning to the museum shortly!_

_…after several months of careful restorations by experts from all over the world, rumors say that several drawings and paintings from Captain Rogers’ personal sketchbook and the Barnes Collection will be on display for the very first time. Until now, opinions of Captain Rogers’ artistic talent have only been based on hearsay and quick doodles done for fellow soldiers, but a first look at the restored sketches suggest a talent beyond what many of us thought possible._

_…many drawings feature members of the Barnes family, but no one is more frequently depicted than Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes…it seems safe to say the exhibit will show a whole new side to Captain America and his Howling Commandos._

_…due to the nature of the new pieces in the exhibit, it will be moved to the American Art museum rather than the American History museum, though a spokeswoman for the museum did say, “We are in the process of building a permanent Captain America exhibit, but due to lack of funds and space, we have yet to decide where Captain Rogers and the Commandos would best be honored for their impact on all of our lives.”_

_…Book your tickets in advance to avoid having to wait in line. Tickets are available at americanart.si.edu/CaptainAmericaTickets_

_—C. Gehrhart, CNN, ‘Captain America Anniversary Exhibit Returns to Smithsonian’,_ 2011

—————

### Just outside of Kalmthout, Belgium   
September 1943

### Steve

The land surrounding them was quiet, still in a way Steve was inherently unused to, even after months of trekking to the most remote places in Europe to conduct missions. He was a city boy through and through, and the deep, calm silence that lay across the fields and villages here in this remote corner of Belgium was entirely unnerving to him.

He and Bucky had been airdropped into occupied Belgium two days ago, choosing to go in by themselves while the Howlies wreaked havoc somewhere in France, to meet with a Resistance fighter who claimed to have information on a secret organisation that spent a lot of time looking for ancients artefacts. Hydra itself hadn’t been named, but the artefacts that had been reportedly stolen struck them as too much of a coincidence to ignore it.

The town they’d agreed to meet in had been right near the larger city of Ghent, but far enough that there would be far fewer Germans patrolling around, and far less chance of Steve being recognised, even if he did still wear the suit—albeit with a jacket to cover up the damned stars and stripes.

By the time they’d gotten there, though, they found the town laid to waste, giant craters in the middle of the street and houses collapsed by the side of the road. There’d been men working on clearing the debris, looking for _survivors_ , no doubt, and others wailing over the bodies of men, women, and children alike. The sight had turned Steve’s stomach, and he’d narrowly avoided retching by the side of the road, but only because Bucky had had the good grace to grasp his arm and drag him out of the city center and towards the small copse of trees so Steve could collect himself.

No matter how many months he’d been in the war, sights like these still got to him.

They’d never found their contact.

Instead, with a week left before anyone expected them to be able to check in, they’d decided to trek further north, to one of the towns that had been mentioned in the brief missive they’d received, to see if they could find any information themselves before returning to London for debrief.

It had been a long, exhausting trek, spanning well over an entire day, but they’d gotten there in the end.

They’d passed through one town—a small town with a church and a few houses and people who seemed more offended by the idea that they weren’t allowed to go to church whenever they pleased than the fact that the Germans had taken over control—and settled in one of the woods that separated it from another town, less than six kilometres away.

They had taken care to avoid well-worn paths and set up their tent deep into the wooded area, where the trees stood so close together there was barely any sunlight at all.

“Don’t think we’ll need to set up watch,” Bucky grumbled as he crawled back into their tent, brushing dirt off of his jacket with a grimace. “It’s so quiet out here we’ll hear someone coming a mile away.”

Steve chuckled, but took Bucky’s words at face value—Bucky was the most paranoid motherfucker in their unit, so if he said it was safe, Steve felt confident that it actually _was_ —and settled comfortably on the thin bedroll. It wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d slept in, but…

He grinned when Bucky plopped down on his lap, wiggling enticingly on top of him, pressing his palms against Steve’s shoulders and grinning devilishly at him. Steve barked a laugh and let Bucky push him down until he rested on his back on the bedroll, fingers trailing down Bucky’s torso until they came to rest on his hips.

It certainly wasn’t the _worst_ place he’d ever slept in either.

It meant Bucky was with him, and that always went a long way to make things bearable. It had made their thin mattress on their tiny shared bed in their tiny shared apartment back in Brooklyn bearable, even if Steve had hated what it did to his back at the time.

He rubbed his thumb over Bucky’s hip idly, vaguely wondering if they should take the risk to double back towards Antwerp, where, according to the limited intel they _had_ been able to recover, Hydra was experimenting on prisoners in a Fort that had been there since the Great War. It was a huge risk, and there was a _damn_ good reason they’d avoided Antwerp in the first place, but…

Steve sighed.

He didn’t want to show up back at HQ empty-handed.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, pressing his thumb to Steve’s jaw to tilt his head up, moving back a little on Steve’s thighs when he moved to sit up again. “Where’s your pretty blond head at this time, punk?”

Steve tried— _tried_ —not to blush at Bucky’s words, but he could feel his cheeks heat up nonetheless, lips parting as he tried to figure out an answer. “Just thinking,” he replied sheepishly, dropping his head forward to rest against Bucky’s collar bone, and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist.

“Well, don’t do that,” Bucky scolded him playfully, poking at the ticklish spot just below his ribs that no one but Bucky knew about—Steve absolutely _didn’t_ yelp; he was a dignified and well-respected Captain in the U.S. Army and he didn’t—

“Bucky!” he exclaimed, jerking away from Bucky’s questing fingers as much as he could with the man still perched on his lap and determined to make him produce the sound again.

“What’s that, Stevie? I can’t hear you, you’re _thinking_ too damn loud,” Bucky crowed triumphantly, and Steve couldn’t—he couldn’t do anything other than writhe with laughter beneath him, falling back onto the bedroll in a desperately futile attempt to escape Bucky’s relentless quest to make him laugh.

“Stop, stop,” he gasped breathlessly, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks as he struggled to catch his breath between chuckles. “I give. You win.”

“Good,” Bucky smirked, settling himself on top of Steve with an elbow on each side of his head, and Steve had to _focus_ to keep his entire train of thought from becoming derailed by the feel of Bucky’s body pressed along his own. “Don’t you forget it.”

Steve hummed contentedly and tilted his head up, pushing his lower lip out into a pout until Bucky relented and leaned down to press a kiss to his lips. Steve grinned against Bucky’s lips and dug his fingers into Bucky’s hair—he was due to get it cut to keep up with Army regulations soon, and Steve was going to take advantage of the longer coupe for as long as he damn well could—to drag him closer, licking up into Bucky’s mouth as the other man moaned against his lips. The triumphant feeling only lasted for a moment, because it didn’t take long for Bucky to get with the program _enthusiastically_ , and Steve thought it entirely unfair that Bucky was scraping his teeth against Steve’s lip in _that_ way, the way that made him shiver all over and melt into a puddle beneath Bucky’s steady weight.

“Buck,” he whined when the kiss broke, both of them gasping for air, Steve’s fingers—the ones that weren’t locked in Bucky’s hair—grabbing uselessly at the coat Bucky was still wearing.

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky breathed harshly, grinding down and sending red-hot arousal rushing through Steve’s veins. “I know, doll,” Bucky whispered against his lips when Steve whined helplessly, slipping his hand down to dig his fingers into the meat of Bucky’s ass.

“Don’t you dare stop,” Steve growled as Bucky sat up, entranced by the graceful way Bucky moved to get his coat unbuttoned and tossed aside. He _knew_ , he _knew_ they couldn’t risk getting fully undressed and making time—they were still in enemy territory, and no matter how well-hidden they were, there was always a risk, but _damn it_ , he hadn’t touched his best guy in _far_ too long, and he _wanted_.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bucky quipped cheekily, but before Steve could say anything snarky in reply, Bucky was on him again, and Steve _would_ say something, but Bucky’s tongue was in his mouth and he was pretty sure he forgot how to _think_ , much less talk, altogether when Bucky’s chest rumbled with a moan against his fingers, his tongue sweeping against the back of Steve’s teeth.

He keened when Bucky’s fingers tugged on his hair, shooting sparks of pleasure down his spine, dragging his head to the side and breaking their kiss to mouth his way down Steve’s jaw and neck.

He paid particular attention to the little spot just beneath Steve’s jaw that had him practically melting into a puddle beneath Bucky, the sensation of Bucky’s _talented_ lips against his feverishly hot skin and the solidness of Bucky’s body pressing into him, _surrounding_ him almost too much—but also not nearly enough.

“You’re being—” He gasped as Bucky scraped his teeth across his earlobe, fingers digging into Bucky’s biceps. “—you’re being _really_ unfair.”

Bucky laughed huskily against him, and Steve shivered but pressed back into the touch when Bucky’s hand slipped down from where his fingers were tangled in Steve’s hair to cradle the back of his head. “Ain’t unfair unless I don’t finish what I started. Don’t worry, Stevie.” He shifted, pushing one leg between Steve’s and pushing _up_ , dragging his teeth across Steve’s bottom lip teasingly. “I’ll take care of ya, babydoll.”  

Steve moaned, clutching at Bucky as the other man pushed his legs open to settle himself between them, lips occupying Steve’s in a downright _filthy_ kiss. Steve couldn’t bring himself to care about the noise and the possibility of someone finding them anymore, because Bucky was between his legs, pressing up against him, and he could barely remember how to _breathe_.

He was a good soldier, damn it, and he didn’t stand for taking risks like these lightly, but it’d been too long since he’d had Bucky like this, by himself, with no one around for miles. Moments like these had been entirely too rare since Steve had pulled Bucky off a metal slab in a factory in Azzano, and they’d learned to savor each one.

And Lord, Steve _adored_ him.

“Ya know,” Bucky drawled playfully, tugging on Steve’s own coat. “As much as I _appreciate_ the tights…” He leaned up and eyed Steve hungrily in a way that made _all_ of the blood left in Steve’s head rush right down to his groin. “They’re a pain to get off,” Bucky concluded, tugging on one of the straps to pull Steve up into a kiss again.

He groaned against Bucky’s lips when the other man rolled his hips down, slipped one leg up and around Bucky’s hip, and slid his hands beneath his shirt and then up, marveling at the fact that he got to _touch_ Bucky again, that he could feel Bucky’s warm skin beneath his palms and could feel the twitch of Bucky’s muscles as he dragged his blunt nails across his best guy’s back.

“I love you,” Bucky panted when the kiss broke, teeth scraping across Steve’s collar bone before he soothed over the abused skin with his tongue as he ground himself against Steve’s _painful_ hard-on. 

“I love you, too,” he croaked, feeling unexpectedly overwhelmed when he realised that he was with _Bucky_ , that Bucky wanted this, _him_ , too. Still. After everything. “ _Bucky_ ,” he whined, slipping his hands down Bucky’s back to his bottom, pulling his hips down to grind on his and _fuck_ —

—————

### Barnes-Proctor residence, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States of America

### Steve

—he woke up with a jolt, nearly rolling out of the bed as he flailed uncoordinatedly.

It took him a few long, tense moments before he realized he was not, in fact, in a tent with Bucky somewhere in northern Belgium in 1943, but in Becky’s spare bedroom in the 21st century, _alone_. He choked on a sob and rolled back into the bed, pressing his face into the pillow as he _tried_ , he _tried_ to pull himself back together, to _deal_ , but he _couldn’t—_

He couldn’t _breathe_ without Bucky.

He didn’t bother getting out of bed that day.

The previous day, Becky had ushered him into her small but tastefully decorated guest bedroom after he had spent _hours_ crying in her arms, trying to _fit_ the enormity of his grief, of his _hurt,_ into words—

She’d understood regardless.

Yesterday, Steve had been _afraid_ and _confused_ and so many other things he’d barely had the words to describe them at all. Today, he didn’t feel much beyond _grief_.

He barely moved all day, face pressed into the pillow, softer than _anything_ he had ever touched in his entire fucking life, and stared ahead, mind whirring as he attempted to come to terms with everything he had learned the previous day.

He ate when Becky called him out to the sitting room for supper and he offered her a weak smile when she asked if he was going to be okay, but she mercifully understood his need for _time_. Rebecca had also been absent, and though Steve appreciated that she had gotten him away from an organization that would have undoubtedly tried to manipulate him into joining them, he was _glad_ she wasn’t there.

It _hurt_ to look at her.

The second day, Becky handed him a thin, rectangular box and showed him how to use it to access something called The Internets—or something. He was apprehensive at first, but it proved incredibly informative, and Steve was both in awe and terrified of how much _knowledge_ the little piece of technology held.

He found files on all of the Commandos, on Peggy, on Bucky and _himself,_ but all it did was make him feel _worse_. He _missed_ his friends, he _missed_ Bucky and he just… he wanted to go _home_.

He stayed in bed all day the next day.

He felt mildly guilty initially, but then he remembered the crushing weight of the ice and how much it had _hurt_ and how _afraid_ he had been, even though he’d also been _relieved_ , and the guilt faded.

He’d been given his body to help people, to fight for them, and he _had_.

He’d given up _everything_ for them. He’d lost _Bucky_ for them.

He’d _died_ for them.

Shouldn’t that be enough?

He stopped getting up at all two days later. He couldn’t bring himself to _move_ much at all—his limbs were heavy and he was just so _tired_ and all he wanted to do was _sleep_.

He didn’t really care.

Sleeping was _good_.

Sleeping, at least, didn’t hurt so much.

He tried to read a little more on the StarkPad, as Becky had called it, but staring at it for too long had made his eyes _hurt_ and his vision blurry, and when he did manage to get through the entire text, all it did was make him feel more despondent.

There was still _so much war_.

There were still _so many_ people living in poverty, politicians _lying_ to the country to make their own lives better while ignoring the plights of their constituents—

He could barely believe that this had been the future he’d given his life for.

That this was the future he’d let _Bucky_ give his life for. There weren’t even fucking _flying cars_.

He did _try_. Becky came to his door every day and talked to him, even if he wouldn’t let her inside. She suggested joining her when she went to church, suggested joining her and Becca for lunch… She _tried_ , and Steve _tried_ , but going outside just…

It _drained_ him and he _couldn’t_ anymore.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, blankly wondering if there was something he should be doing. He’d never been one for sitting still, but _Lord_ , he simply couldn’t bring himself to actually take the step of _getting out of bed_.

He didn’t really feel much of anything anymore.

The StarkPad made a soft, tinkling noise beside him, which he knew meant a new news article had been uploaded to the news website. He’d read quite a few of those over the past few days, and though there had been a few that made him smile, there had been many more that just… that made him _sad_ or _angry_ , but he was too tired to _do_ anything about it.

He glanced to the shiny, lit screen nonetheless, curiosity getting the best of him.

 _“Smithsonian announces return of Captain America Exhibit after immense success of sixty-fifth anniversary exhibit,”_ the title proclaimed in big, bold letters, and Steve’s stomach turned, nausea curling up until it itched the back of his throat. _“Now with previously unseen and newly restored original artwork by Captain Rogers himself!”_

“No,” he whispered, barely aware that he’d spoken the words out loud, his voice thick and rough with disuse, tapping on the screen to read the article with a feeling of _dread_ and _horror_ pooling in his stomach. There was a blurry picture in the corner, a piece of paper stained with age, thick charcoal lines etching out the smooth lines of Bucky’s back as he slept on his stomach, face burrowed into the single pillow they’d owned, his hair an absolute mess without any pomade in it and the sheet tangled around his waist and legs, one leg hanging out of the bed haphazardly.

Steve’s breath became choppy and erratic, because he _remembered_ drawing that—

He remembered how hot it had been that summer, and how they’d _loathed_ to share the same bed because Bucky ran hotter than a damned furnace, and even though Steve’s toes had been perpetually cold, it was just _too damned hot_.

Bucky had taken to just sleeping in the buff and Steve had been _so in love_ with him, so in _awe_ that Bucky claimed to love him just as much, even when the rest of the world had deemed little Steve Rogers of no worth and barely any consequence. He remembered waking up before Bucky, which had been rare, even though the oldest Barnes liked his sleep almost as much as he liked Steve.

He remembered being completely _awestruck_ by the sight of Bucky, because that man was _his_ , and none of Father O’Connell’s preaches about the sins of sodomy and the certainty of Hell should they succumb to it would convince Steve that what he felt for Bucky was _wrong_.

How could love _ever_ be wrong?

“Please, don’t let this be real,” he prayed to a deity he was no longer sure he believed in, because Steve was fairly certain he could handle _anything_ — _anything_ but the world seeing what he’d shared with Bucky and _scrutinizing_ it.

It had been…

What they’d had had always been _just theirs_.

They’d never shared what they had with _anyone_ , not even Peggy or the Commandos. They’d known, distantly, of course, because Steve was _terrible_ at lying, and honestly, he walked straight into enemy territory to get Bucky back, even though he might very well have been dead—

Peggy and the boys had been many things, but stupid hadn’t been one of them.

Even so, Bucky and Steve’s relationship had been entirely private, and they’d _never_ touched each other inappropriately in front of anyone.

Steve swallowed thickly and looked at the picture of his sketch again.

And now _everyone_ would be able to see _them_ —see what they’d _never_ willingly shared.

God, was nothing in this godforsaken century _his_ anymore?

He dropped the tablet, fingers trembling as he reflexively reached for his neck, his breath stuttering as his fingers scraped across nothing but bare skin. He couldn’t stop the wounded sound that fell from his lips, muscles in his chest burn painfully, bunching together until it felt like a fist was squeezing his heart so tight he could barely _breathe_.

He didn’t even have _Bucky_.

His breath fell from his lips in short, sharp gasps that _tore_ through his lungs in a way he hadn’t felt since before he’d gotten the serum and it _hurt_.

 _Everything kept hurting_.

He’d not had an attack like this very often after the serum, but when he had, he’d had Peggy or Bucky to help regulate his breathing and he was _alone now_.

 _God_ , _he was all alone_.

He didn’t even hear the knock on the door until it slowly creaked open and Becca, dressed in a simple white shirt and jeans this time, fingers adorned with thin silver bands so slight he could barely see them against her tan skin at all, peeked her head in.

“Captain?”

Steve glared at her menacingly before squeezing his eyes shut, fighting desperately to regain control over his breathing. He pressed his back to the wall, moving in stunted, short bursts until he was curled up as small as he could go, forehead pressed to his knees with his arms wrapped around his legs. He heaved deep, shuddering breaths, gasping as he tried to steady himself, to keep _going—_

 _Why_?

The thought was so sudden that he forgot to breathe at all, for a moment.

Why did he have to keep going when he had _nothing_ to keep going for?

Hardly anyone knew he was alive anyway. It wouldn’t be a true loss anyway—the way people spoke of him in the articles wasn’t even _about him_. No one in this century even _cared_ about Steve Rogers anymore. He was a commodity—a stupid, silly dancing monkey.

Maybe he never had become more than that.       

The real Steve Rogers wasn’t much of anything anyway. He was a wreck and a coward beneath that cowl, and people didn’t deserve to have their faith in Captain America tarnished because he was so much of a cur that he couldn’t keep it together.

Maybe it’d be better if people never really met Steve Rogers beneath the mask.

Maybe it would be better if he’d stayed dead.

Wouldn’t it just be so much _easier_? God, it _would_ —he would get to see his mother, his father…

 _Bucky_.

He’d be with Bucky and the Howlies and he’d be _home_.

It wouldn’t _hurt_ anymore.

“Steve. Steve, look at me. Please, look at me.”

Becca’s voice tore through the white noise that rang in his ears and the sound of oxygen surging through his lungs and broke past the stabbing ache in his chest. He looked up shakily, realizing he was crying for the first time when he couldn’t make out her features properly.

“I just want it all to end,” he blurted in a small, shaky voice. “I just wanna go home.”

He didn’t jump when she touched her hand to his, but his skin crawled nonetheless, because the touch was _soft_ and _kind_ and he _didn’t want that_.

He didn’t _deserve_ that.

She took her hand away and held her hands up in silent surrender. “I’m not going to touch you again. I’m just going to sit here, okay?” Steve looked at her quizzically, but nodded eventually, because having her sit there wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?

And if he squinted _just right_ , she looked enough like Bucky that he could pretend, just for a little bit.

“Do you know I was in the Army?”

He looked up again and frowned, trying to recall anything he knew about the youngest Barnes, because for a moment he had forgotten. He had forgotten he wasn’t back in 1945 with Bucky and Peggy sitting across from him, playing cards while he watched them and calmed himself down.

He shook his head slowly, shakily, breath easing a little as he watched her carefully.

She smiled tightly, a grimacing kind of grin that made him wince in sympathy even before she’d even spoken. “Joined up when I was eighteen,” she disclosed quietly. “I was good. Got noticed. Got promoted and sent out to Iraq twice. The second time, my unit was ambushed when we were on a routine patrol. No one else made it out. They took me prisoner and held me for four months.”

Steve’s heart stuttered and he felt almost like he’d been doused in icy cold water again, goose bumps springing up over his entire body and nausea welling up in his throat again.

“You were a prisoner of war?” he choked, stumbling over his words clumsily.

Becca merely nodded calmly. “I don’t remember much,” she admitted with a shrug. “Therapist says that’s normal. My brain trying to protect me from trauma or something.” She shrugged again and ran her fingers through her hair. “I remember they tortured me though. And that there was a video made, even though I never saw it.” Steve watched as she drew her fingers across her arms, trailing thin, faint scars that were almost too light for him to see.

“I remember waking up in a medical tent in Iraq, and then later in a hospital. I couldn’t go home for two months because I was too unstable after what they’d done to me.” Steve stared, unsure of _why_ — _why_ she was telling him this, _why_ any of this was relevant—but before he could try to _say_ or _ask_ , she shook her head and continued.

“I’ve been where you are,” she said frankly, looking up at him with Bucky’s eyes—fierce and determined like he had been, and _Lord_ , it _ached_. “I know how easy it is to give up, Steve.”

His breath caught again, but he didn’t move as she crawled closer again, reaching for his hands slowly, so he would have time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. He let her take his hands in hers and blinked in surprise when he felt cold metal press into his palm.

He looked down and gulped, fingers closing reflexively around the dog tags she’d pressed into his palm. “Are these—”

Becca nodded. “I got them back to you as soon as I could,” she said softly, closing his fingers around the familiar rectangular metal piece. “And I know you feel like you don’t belong, but I want you to just consider this… Maybe you’re here for a reason. We might not know what that is yet, but I know that, at least, it isn’t punishment. Bucky didn’t die because of you.”

Steve flinched away from her as though she’d slapped him, but she pressed on, squeezing her slender fingers around his. “Bucky died because he believed in you, and he loved you, and he thought you were meant for _great_ things. He died so you could keep going.”

He _hated_ hearing the words again.

It was _far_ from the first time someone had tried to tell him he was meant for _more_ …

Peggy had whispered the words to him as she held him while he cried after losing Bucky, as had the Commandos each time they pulled Steve out of whichever reckless fight he had thrown himself into in the days following Bucky’s fall.

It’s what Peggy had whispered when she’d _pleaded_ with him before he crashed the Valkyrie.

And Bucky… Bucky had _always_ believed in him, even when he’d been five foot nothing and angry at the whole goddamn world for not taking him seriously.

 _“You’re gonna change the world someday, Stevie_ ,” _Bucky whispered, arms tightening around Steve’s waist as he plastered himself to Steve’s back, lips brushing against Steve’s good ear, sending shivers down his spine. “Just you wait. One day, everyone’s gonna see what I see and I’ll have to beat ‘em all off of ya with sticks.”_

Steve had never believed him.

Especially after he’d become Captain America and had basically been reduced to a prized show pony. Even when he’d proved himself and managed to do the impossible and got Bucky back from behind enemy lines. He’d stumbled and he’d faltered, but he’d always had Bucky to help him back up.

He didn’t know if he had the strength to do it on his own.

“What if I can’t do this alone?” he asked weakly, tears pooling in his eyes once more as he looked up at Becca, tightening his grip on the dog tags almost desperately.

“You’re not alone,” Becca replied immediately, her grip so tight it would be painful for anyone else—and it _grounded_ him.

He looked at her again and swallowed thickly.

Maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe… Maybe he could try.


	5. The One with the Spies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, guys! 
> 
> Just a quick FYI for all of you. The last two chapters of this part are still in editing and rewriting, so after the next chapter on tuesday, I will pause updating for a week or so, until my last exam is done and I will be able to spend some more time on actually writing. 
> 
> It won't take more than a week, maximum two, I'm sure, to have the last two chapters up to where they need to be before I can update them. 
> 
> Thank you for all the support so far, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> Check the end notes on this chapter for trigger warnings! :D 
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Five

—————

_The war against Iraq has been a part of many Americans’ reality for some time, but it truly hit home for the Barnes-Proctor family six_ _months ago, when news broke that their youngest granddaughter, Capt. Rebecca Barnes, was captured by a faction of Al’Qaeda. Capt. Barnes’ capture was not made public knowledge until two months ago, when images of Capt. Barnes being rescued from her cell by U.S. Army soldiers, guided by Iron Man, flickered onto TV screens and internet sites._

_The images of Barnes, 22, shocked Americans, and Barnes’ family specifically, deeply._

_…In all, 34 soldiers from Barnes’ unit were unaccounted for – either captured, dead, or missing – after fierce fighting at Basra in south-east Iraq, but Capt. Barnes is as of yet the only known survivor. From the single image that has been released, it seems obvious that Capt. Barnes’ rights as a POW were severely violated, and the fact that her return to the U.S. needed to be delayed by two months until Capt. Barnes was stable enough to withstand transport only reinforces such ideas._

_…Barnes, the granddaughter of State Senator James Proctor and Doctor Rebecca Proctor, joined the Army in July 2004 after high school to gain life experience and, to paraphrase Dr. Rebecca Proctor, to “pay her dues to her country as all those in our family have done”._

_…“Becca has always been strong,” Dr. Proctor said at a press conference last month. “We have no doubt that she will pull through and return to the U.S. as the hero she now is.”_

_Capt. Barnes’ ordeal, to which we can only speculate based on a singular image, will certainly keep the nation enthralled for weeks to come, as Capt. Barnes is prepared to return to U.S. by medical envoy._

_—M. Pleadt, CNN, ‘Captain Rebecca Barnes to return to the U.S. after time as POW’,_ 2008

—————

### Rebecca Barnes’ residence, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States of America  
July 2011

### Steve

The light that filtered through the thin, gauzy curtains was still faint and pale, and Steve blinked lazily at the clock on the opposite wall. It ticked on merrily, undisturbed by his heavy gaze, showing a time that was far from socially acceptable to be awake. Steve hadn’t slept through an entire night since he had received the serum though, and after he’d been forced to watch Bucky fall to his death…

Closing his eyes…

He swallowed thickly and shook his head.

The thoughts and images that haunted him did not bear thinking of in daylight.

He shook himself again and summarily focused on piece of paper on the fridge, listing his schedule for the day. It was a simple schedule, and he’d only complied in making it because he’d learned, in the weeks since he’d moved out of Becky’s spare bedroom and into the second bedroom in Becca’s apartment, that it was a really great motivator to get out of bed.

 _One step at a time_.

_Day by day._

_Hour by hour._

_Minute by minute_.

After Becca had returned Bucky’s dog tags to him, Steve had made a conscious effort to get better.

The twenty-first century _terrified_ him on a daily basis still, but he’d found that it wasn’t so overwhelming once he found the right friends to help him adjust. When he had shown Becca the article on the Smithsonian exhibit, tears of _anger_ and _frustration_ burning in his eyes at the thought of his drawings of Bucky being on display like that, she’d assured him she’d find a way to take care of it.

Two days later, a tall, beautiful woman with strawberry-blonde hair and an impeccable suit had shown up in Becky’s living room with a pile of papers that he needed to sign.

She’d explained that, while no one had been informed he was actually alive, she could put things in motion to have his driver’s license validated, his passport updated and his back pay from the Army released. It had all sounded like a load of hogwash to Steve, but it had been the papers he needed to sign saying he did not consent to his private property being used in a public display that nearly had him bursting into tears again.

The woman—Ms. Potts, as she’d introduced herself—had patted his shoulder kindly and explained that no museum had the right to exhibit his personal belongings without his express permission, but that such technicalities were often overlooked when there wasn’t a family member alive to legally object to the exhibit. He’d never signed anything as fast before.

A day later, Ms. Potts had called him to tell him the exhibit had been temporarily postponed, and she was working on getting the museum to return all of his personal belongings to him.

It had also been the day Steve had caught himself sitting on the bathroom floor with a razor blade slipping between his fingertips, the metal cool and sharp where he had it pressed up against the thin layer of skin covering his ulnar artery.

It had been, quite honestly, a terrifying experience.

He didn’t _want_ to kill himself—not truly.

He didn’t always see the point of being alive when none of his loved ones were anymore, but he’d never actively tried to take his own life before.

He’d confided in Becca first, to his own surprise, counting on the fact that the other woman had been in his shoes—somewhat, anyway—to help her understand his reluctance to admit the weakness he’d discovered in himself.

The thought of having to vocally admit to a weakness like battle-fatigue was _petrifying_.

He was, for all intents and purposes, still Captain America.

Captain America was never meant to succumb to an act of cowardice as vile and inadequate as _battle fatigue_. He’d brought it up with Becca for that purpose alone—he _knew_ she would have to understand what it would mean, having been in the Army herself.

He didn’t think Becky, for all that she was immensely knowledgeable and understanding, would know what accusations of such nature could lead to if overheard by the wrong person.

Steve, however, _did_. He was intimately and _painfully_ aware of what happened to soldiers who succumbed to the weakness. He’d seen good men lead before a tribunal, accused and condemned for something Steve didn’t think was _fair_ —no one _asked_ to see the things they did in war. No one _asked_ to be in a war in the first place; but nonetheless, those that didn’t know how to cope as well as others were ostracized and kicked out…

He’d even seen a man executed for it once.

It had not been common in their ranks, but Private Lucas O’Geary’s terrified, wide eyes as he was led before a firing squad were burned into Steve’s memory.

Becca had, gently and calmly, explained that things weren’t done like that anymore, and that it was no sin nor cowardice to admit to what she called PTSD. She’d told him of the therapist she talked to once a week, and the group meeting she frequented, where she was able to share her experiences with others who had gone through the same thing.

The idea itself was comforting, but it had still taken him several days to take her up on her offer to accompany her to one of said meetings, and a few days more until he relented and called the phone number she had given him—a therapist who was trustworthy and _good_ , and willing to help him.

It had been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life, but there was something reassuring about knowing there was someone other than Becky or Becca to call when his own emotions and the world itself would completely overwhelm him again.

The therapist, a kind, seemly woman named Karen with thick copper curls and a friendly smile that reminded him of his mother so much it ached, had taken everything that came with Steve’s _unusual_ background in stride and had focused, first and foremost, on ensuring he was comfortable.

She had signed the paperwork Becca and Ms. Potts insisted upon without a fuss, and had helped Steve talk through his life before the war, and how it still affected him—when he’d tried to deflect and tell her it was, apparently, all required reading in high school, she easily countered his point and reminded him that none of the historians who wrote those textbooks were him.

She wanted to hear from _him_.

It had been Karen who suggested mapping out each day, giving him a reason to get out of bed each morning, regardless of the dreary weather or his own dreary mood.

It had, to Steve’s greatest surprise, helped more than he cared to admit.

It had also been Karen who suggested he move out of Becky’s spare bedroom and into an actual apartment, where he could legitimately build himself a _home_. Becca had offered the second room in her apartment, citing she needed a roommate anyway, and Steve might as well start out with someone he could actually _trust_.

Living with the youngest Barnes had been… it had been a _revelation_ , to say the very least.

He’d been shocked to his core on the first morning after he had moved in, when he had walked into the kitchen to find Becca eating a bowl of a sugary concoction she claimed was cornflakes dressed in nothing but a skimpy pair of panties and a tank top that honestly revealed more than it covered.

Steve was fairly certain he’d never blushed so hard _in his life_.

He’d also run into the doorpost trying to walk right back out of the kitchen and had been forced to sit through the most embarrassing ten minutes of his life while Becca’d applied butterfly Band-Aids to the cut above his eyebrow— _still dressed in nothing but the top and her underwear_ —and Steve had tried to look _everywhere_ but at her.

Steve grinned at the memory now, weeks later, after Becca had slapped him up the head and told him to get his head out of the gutter and had reminded him that, “you were like basically married to my great-uncle, or something. Would have been if had been legal. Whatever. It’s weird. You’re hot, but I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole, buddy.”

It had made a whole lot more sense when she had been dressed and poking him in the chest until he agreed with her. Once that issue had been cleared, Steve and Becca had fallen into a routine so smoothly, Steve found it difficult to believe he’d been here less than a month.

He had learned to work Becca’s coffeemaker on his second day in the apartment, when it became apparent that Becca didn’t really _function_ as a human being before her third cup of caffeine.

She had shown him how to work the complicated monstrosity before sitting him down and suggesting he and Karen-the-therapist talk about healthy ways to go about trying to catch up with the twenty-first century. It had helped, to have a few different suggestions, to figure out what best suited _him_.

He’d began with day-to-day things, to ensure he could _live_ without feeling completely out of his depth.

From there on, Becca had helped him choose some books and films to watch, to slowly immerse himself in pop culture until he felt less like he didn’t understand a single word anyone was saying. He quite enjoyed animated movies, and he’d been _stunned_ to watch the progress of Disney movies from _Snow White_ —which he remembered seeing with Bucky in ’37—to newer ones like _Moana_ and _Brave_.

Neither Becca, nor Becky or Karen-the-therapist ever made him feel like he was an idiot for not understanding every reference or for not being able to navigate his way through life as smoothly as he should be able to, and it meant more to him than he could say now.

He’d felt much like a child, stumbling along in the dark while trying to learn how to walk, before Becca and Karen-the-therapist and Becky had taken his hands in theirs and guided him back out into the light.

He’d learned _so much_.

He’d learned that the world was a much bigger, but simultaneously a much smaller place now, and that women, people of color and openly queer people could practice any profession they liked, and that Becca liked to flirt with everything that moved when she was sober, and tended to include things that _didn’t_ move when she had had a few drinks.

He learned that it was quite alright for women to have a social life as thriving as Bucky’s had been, back before he had been shipped out and they had to have a cover in place so people wouldn’t be suspicious of the two young, single men living together in a one-bedroom apartment.

He’d learned that Becca’s social life was _more_ than thriving.

She had taken him out for drinks—disregarding his protests about not being able to get drunk—and had introduced him to the bartender in the club nearest to their apartment and her friend, fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and general human catastrophe Clint, before proceeding to get absolutely hammered and dancing with anyone who caught her eye.

Steve had _loved_ it.

He had _loved_ the freedom and the beauty in Becca’s behavior, he’d _loved_ the way she spun both men and women around the dancefloor confidently, without so much as a hint of fear.

He’d loved the way Clint knew sign language and helped him remember and expand his vocabulary before promising to take Steve out to show him _real_ coffee.

He had _especially_ loved her hilarious one-sided conversation with the potted plant in the lobby when they returned home that night, and had almost laughed himself silly before he’d been able to pull himself together enough to get Becca up to their apartment and into her bed without further incidents.

It had been a good night.

Steve smiled wryly now, clenching his fingers around his mostly-empty cup.

It had been a really good night, followed by a series of increasingly terrible days. Days where he _couldn’t_ , where he couldn’t _breathe_ , couldn’t find the will to eat…

He didn’t have many of those days anymore—but they still remained.

Both Becca and Karen-the-therapist had told him it was no more than normal, and Steve _believed_ them—he _did_ —but he still felt _so_ tired.

His lack of sleep was usually to blame on his overly active mind and his nightmares, but every now and then, Becca’s _active_ social life succeeded in keeping him wide awake too. Such had been the case tonight, when Becca and her date of the evening had stumbled into the apartment around one AM, giggling and stumbling over furniture and against the wall until they’d reached Becca’s bedroom.

Steve had felt it prudent to leave his bedroom to avoid hearing anything that might scar him for life.

As if on cue, Becca stumbled into the kitchen, her hair snarled, thrown into a messy knot with strands slipping down to curl against her neck. She was wearing a shirt that Steve was sure was one of the shirts she bought for him before she’d stolen it and shorts that ended mid-thigh and she looked like she wasn’t quite sure why she was conscious.

Steve smiled into his cup as she collapsed at the kitchen island, pillowing her head on her arms, before getting to his feet to get Becca a cup of coffee and to refill his own.

“ _Good morning,”_ he drawled playfully, pushing her favorite mug in her hands before retaking his seat.

She groaned wordlessly in response, but after a healthy gulp of her coffee, she glared at him balefully and moaned, “Shut up, Rogers. How are you so _perky_ in the morning? Is it the serum? That’s cheating.”

Her lethargy was almost comical, and Steve couldn’t help but _smile_ at her, because he saw Bucky in her, whining and moaning after he’d gone dancing, and though it _hurt_ , he didn’t _mind_ the ache so much anymore. It meant he was still capable of _feeling_.

He’d been afraid of losing that permanently for a while.

The ache felt good now—a reminder.

A reminder that though he’d lost something— _Bucky—everything_ —it had been _real_.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

“Drink your coffee,” he told her gently, nudging her protruding lower lip with the tip of his finger playfully. “Gotta tell me about your date. Went pretty well, from what I heard,” he added, chuckling slightly when her eyes widened in surprise and then horror.

“You _heard_ us?” she squawked indignantly, cheeks flushing with aghast embarrassment.

Before he could reply, Steve caught sight of a slim, beautiful woman in a tight black dress with straps slipping down her shoulders and high heels with red soles dangling from her fingers by the strap, her short red hair almost as wild and tangled as Becca’s long locks. The woman paused in the doorway, eyes widening as she took both him and Becca in, before she raised an eyebrow at him.

It almost felt like a challenge.  

“I didn’t hear anything too scarring,” he said slowly, both to his roommate and the woman in the doorway. “But the fact that she’s standing in the doorway’s a pretty good indicator too.”

Becca sat bolt upright and swiveled around in her seat to look at the other woman, who now leaned against the doorjamb with something akin to a sheepish grin on her lips. “I promise I wasn’t sneaking out,” she said, slipping the slipping strap of her dress back onto her shoulder. “I have work in a few hours, and I assure you my boss would never let me live it down if I turned up like this.”

There was a distinct lack of accent to her words, and it rubbed Steve the wrong way—usually, with his enhanced hearing, he was more than capable of discerning accents, however faint.

The fact that he _couldn’t_ with Becca’s hook-up bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

“You don’t have to go,” Becca said quietly, slipping off of her stool to approach the other woman, trailing her fingers down the redhead’s arm in an intimate gesture that made Steve flush and look away. “Stay for breakfast,” he heard her say as he turned to the ice box, opening it partially to get started on making aforementioned breakfast, and partially to pretend he wasn’t listening in on the two women.

He did not feel awkward about the fact that Becca had someone over—it had happened once or twice before—but more about the fact that this woman seemed to have no compunction or shame about walking into their kitchen the next morning.

Becca’s usual type snuck out the door while they had breakfast.

He and Becca had had several conversations about it, actually, and though Steve couldn’t imagine feeling content with strictly sexual encounters, he understood that Becca had no need for romantic relationships in her life right now.

The thing that felt most _odd_ for him was how little concern she displayed in regards to her sexuality.

It was, however, comforting to have someone to confide in about his own experiences, someone with similar issues and who understood what it meant to struggle with one’s sexual identity.

Of course, his experiences were limited to Bucky and having to hide what they were to each other for fear of being persecuted and hurt, and Peggy, and the terrifying, _new_ way she had made him feel, even if nothing had ever happened between them.

He set out the carton of eggs and the wrapped plate of bacon, briefly contemplating whether to make French toast too, before discarding the idea. He was the only one that ate more than a regular person, and experience had taught him that Becca ate like a sick bird in the mornings—something about her stomach not tolerating food before noon.

He’d just make one or two eggs extra, a few more slices of bacon and toast, and they’d be fine.

When he let the door fall closed, he caught a glimpse of the two women, entwined in what looked like a _very_ passionate embrace, with Becca’s back pressed against the doorframe and the redhead’s fingers in her hair. Steve coughed awkwardly, averting his eyes as they jumped and broke apart. “Sorry to interrupt,” he deadpanned, biting his lower lip to hide his grin when Becca blushed. “Just checking if you’re actually staying for breakfast.”

“I suppose I could,” the other woman smiled tightly while turning to Becca. “If you wouldn’t mind lending me some clean clothes and your shower?”

Becca looked back at the woman with an expression on her face that reminded Steve all too much of the way he’d used to look at Bucky, or even Peggy. It was an expression filled with awe and fondness, and it made Steve ache nostalgically.

It was _odd_ to see it on Becca’s face, especially considering her feelings towards romance.

He watched as she ushered the other woman back to her bedroom nonetheless, presumably to provide the aforementioned clothing, before turning back to his eggs and bacon and getting to work.

It’d been the deal they’d established when he first moved in; he did not have a stable income yet, so he couldn’t contribute to the rent yet, and he didn’t like doing _nothing_ , so he’d taken over cooking in the apartment. It wasn’t like Becca couldn’t cook or was a bad cook—she’d made it clear she just preferred not to cook, and was happy to relinquish these duties to Steve instead.

He moved to the oven and popped in a couple of slices of bread to lightly toast them before moving back to the stove and getting started on the bacon as Becca walked back into the kitchen, moving around him smoothly and quietly to fetch plates and cutlery.

They moved around each other fluidly, in a dance born of fond familiarity, and it never ceased to amaze Steve. He’d fallen in with Becca and the extended Barnes’ family so easily it almost felt like breathing.

It wasn’t truly like feeling at home—because he didn’t think he could truly _feel_ at home without Bucky at his side—but the sense of belonging and _family_ they gave him made it easier to get up each morning.

The schedule _had_ helped too.

He and Becca had dinner with Becky every Thursday, and he joined Becca at her VA meeting once a week. He met Karen for a therapy session three times a week, usually right after he’d drop Becca off at S.H.I.E.L.D. so he could use her car to drive up to Queens. Clint insisted on bringing him coffee at least a few times a week too.

Last week, he had added boxing at a local boxing gym twice a week to the schedule, because he’d _missed_ boxing, had missed _punching_ stuff when he got pissed off, and the grimy little gym he’d found reminded him of Goldie’s Boxing gym, where Bucky had taught him how to box.

He smiled sadly before refocusing on cooking breakfast, Becca and her guest.

He waited until he could hear the pipes groan as the shower turned on before he turned to Becca, offering her what he hoped was a cheeky grin and raised an eyebrow. “So?” he asked playfully. “Having fun? I thought you preferred it when they didn’t stick around.”

The flush on Becca’s cheeks was very nearly hilarious, but he listened nonetheless when she spoke, shyly, in a tone he’d never heard from her before.

“I know,” she admitted, setting the plates on the kitchen island before fiddling with the cutlery. “I don’t know what it is… she’s…” Becca shrugged helplessly and grinned in the direction of her bedroom. “She’s really cool. And just—” Steve barely managed to suppress the urge to chuckle when Becca flapped her hands desperately. “She’s really, really awesome.”

And though it ached, seeing this… this expression of youthful infatuation on Becca’s face, it made him inexplicably _happy_ for her too. She had been nothing but kind to him, and he was pleased she’d found someone who could make her smile.

“I’m sorry we kept you up though,” she frowned, and Steve _hated_ the way the smile immediately disappeared from her lips. It reminded him all too much of all the times Bucky had lost that smile—that radiant, _beautiful_ smile that seemed to run in the Barnes family—because Steve had needed caring for, because he’d made Bucky _worry_ —

“Becca,” he sighed heavily, turning to the table with the frying pan in hand, evenly distributing the eggs and bacon on the plates before setting it back on the counter. “We’ve been through this. It’s still your apartment. You get to do whatever— _and whoever_ —you want.”

Becca just grinned dopily at him, and he rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he turned back to the oven to pull out the bread. “...did you make a joke? Did Steve Rogers, Captain fucking America, make a joke about my _sex_ life? Holy shit!” Steve groaned as Becca poked at him, but he couldn’t quite suppress the smile that tugged on his lips at her teasing.

“Just,” Becca shook her head and wrinkled her nose as she sipped at her forgotten cold coffee. “Steve. Stevie. C’mon. We’ve been over this. This ain’t just _my_ place anymore. You live here too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve swatted at her half-heartedly and vaguely listened to see if the shower was still on before he took a seat at the kitchen island and gestured at the plate of eggs and toast. “Eat your food,” he told her sternly, wrinkling his nose when she stuck her tongue out at him before complying.

They ate in silence for a while before Becca frowned and glanced towards the bedrooms. “Is it me or is she taking a long time?”

Before he could contemplate her question, there was a firm knock on the door.

Steve looked at Becca quizzically, but her expression was just as comically puzzled as his own undoubtedly was. He hardly thought visitors at six-thirty in the morning were _common_ in this era; they certainly hadn’t been in the time he had been here.

“You expecting more _guests_?” he asked, aiming for playful, though he could tell the tone fell flat. Becca shook her head wordlessly, frowning in confusion, and rubbed her fingers through her hair, tying it up again in a marginally less messy knot before she padded out of the kitchen to open the door.

Steve remained seated at the table for another few seconds until he pushed himself to his feet, wandering out into the living room to see who had called upon them so ridiculously early in the morning.

He froze halfway between the kitchen and the living room, one hand braced against the doorframe as he stared at the tall, dark skinned man that stood before Becca, looking hilariously out of place in his dark leather trench coat, eyepatch and boots beside Becca, who was still rumpled with sleep and dressed in her pyjamas.

Steve had never met another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent beyond Becca and her friend Clint, but this man _breathed_ authority and Steve barely even had to look at Becca to realise that whoever this man was, he was high up in the chain of command.

He knew S.H.I.E.L.D. would be looking to recruit him, had expected as much after everything he had found out about it in the weeks since he’d been awake, but he hadn’t quite expected them to show up at six-thirty on a Wednesday morning.

He hadn’t quite expected that level of desperation.

“Ah, Captain Rogers,” the man said, eyeing Steve with the one eye— _Christ_ —in a way that made his skin crawl and made him feel entirely too self-conscious in his own soft pyjama pants and Star Wars t-shirt Becca had insisted upon. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Steve said slowly, frowning as he tried to decipher the look on Becca’s face, stepping closer cautiously. He had had his fair share of experience with overbearing officers and higher-ups—senator Brandt had been the _least_ of his concerns at times—but he had to admit that showing up at someone’s private residence at the crack of dawn was beyond anything he’d imagined possible, even in this century, where privacy seemed like a farfetched illusion at times.

“Steve,” Becca spoke up hoarsely, frowning impressively as she glanced towards the bedrooms. “This is Director Fury. He’s the man I told you about.”

Steve stiffened and glanced back to the tall man with new apprehension.

Not just an overbearing superior then—the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. himself. Becca _had_ , in fact, told him about Fury, and how she supposed he would try to recruit Steve as soon as Becca gave him an inch.

It seemed he did not even wait for Becca to _give_ him the inch.

“What brings you here, Director?” Steve demanded, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorpost, eyes firmly on the Director’s.

There was an air of _authority_ to him that made the soldier in Steve want to straighten his back and snap into position, but he purposefully suppressed the urge. He was _not_ a soldier right now, and he was going to make damned sure Director Fury knew that too.

Steve didn’t miss the way the older man glanced towards Becca with an almost peculiar look on his face before he replied succulently, “I don’t believe Agent Barnes’s presence is _required_.”

 _“Excuse me_?” Becca hissed, pushing herself away from the front door, and Steve barely managed to put himself between them—it was Fury’s own fault, really. Steve expected the leader of what appeared to be an organisation filled with an assortment of spies and former military personnel to have figured out that it was _never_ a good idea to antagonise someone before their second cup of coffee.

“Becca,” he said softly, curling his fingers around her upper arm delicately—the last time he had grabbed her without thinking, she had carried finger-shaped bruises for a week—to draw the heat of her infuriated gaze back towards himself. “It’s okay.”

The anger in her eyes very swiftly gave way to _worry_ , and that made him feel a little queasy in itself, because he _hated_ when people worried about him.

He nodded towards the bedrooms, where the shower had finally stopped running, and gave her a nudge in that direction. He’d much rather she tend to her _guest_ while he tended to his so they could get back to their damned breakfasts than stand here and argue.

They looked at each other in silence for another moment, and though Steve was uncomfortably aware of Fury’s eye upon them, he didn’t look away from Becca until he saw acceptance bloom in her eyes. She clenched her jaw in defiance and glared at him, but didn’t protest further and stomped towards her bedroom, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

He stared after her for a moment before Fury cleared his throat, and Steve turned back to him reluctantly.

“You’re up early, Captain,” Fury finally said, stopping and turning towards Steve with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Trouble sleeping?”

Steve was, contrary to popular belief, _far_ from innocent and had engaged in _plenty_ of things that would make even Becca blush—not in the least because he’d engaged in most of those things with her late great-uncle—and he didn’t miss the pointed look Fury gave the bedroom door Becca had just closed.

He did _not_ appreciate the wordless implication.

“I slept for seventy years, sir.” He bit back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think I’ve had my fill.”

The other man inclined his head towards Steve, conceding his point, and followed him into the kitchen when Steve retreated there, his stomach growling something fierce, clearly unhappy at not being fed breakfast—Steve couldn’t say he disagreed there.

“Then you should be out, _celebrating_ ,” the director insisted,  “See the world. I’m sure Agent Barnes would be willing to show you whatever you desire.” It was the third implication to his relationship with Becca that the man had made since he’d stepped foot inside, and it rubbed Steve _all_ the wrong ways.

He ignored the urge to lash out at the man and eyed him speculatively.

“You here with a mission, sir?” Steve leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter as he eyed Fury intently. It was the only reason he could think of for the other man to be insistent on seeing him at 6 AM on a regular Wednesday.

Fury raised an eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless. “I am.”

Steve frowned, unsure of what to do with that information or why Fury would think he would _want_ a mission. “You trying to get me back in the world?”

Fury shrugged and handed him a folder—Steve didn’t even want to know where he’d pulled that thing from—before he said, “I’m trying to save it.” The folder was deceptively thin and light, and Steve was sure he was _not_ going to like what he was going to find inside.

He was right.

He narrowly avoided using some of the finer creative curses he’d picked up from the Howlies when he flipped to the first page and his eye fell upon the _fucking cube_.

“Hydra’s secret weapon,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Tell me you haven’t _actually_ been using this.” He looked up at Fury angrily, fingers tightening on the fragile paper of the folder. “Please tell me you knew better than to use their secret weapon.”

Fury shuffled a little, and the look on his face was the first hint of actual human emotion Steve saw on it, even if it was only mild awkwardness. “Howard Stark fished that thing out of the ocean when he was looking for you,” Fury said, nodding towards the picture. “He thought what we think; the Tesseract could be the key to unlimited sustainable energy.” He must have read the confusion from Steve’s face, because he simply shrugged and added, “It is something the world sorely needs.”

He leafed through the limited number of pages in the folder, shaking his head. “Who took it from you?”

“He’s called Loki,” Fury sneered, and Steve was both impressed with and wary of the man that somehow managed to put a crack in Director Fury’s implacable expression. “He’s… _not_ from around here,” the Director continued. “There’s a lot we’ll have to bring you up to speed on if you’re in. The world has gotten even stranger than you already know.”

Steve snorted and thought about some of the websites he had accidentally stumbled upon after Becca had shown him how to Google things and how to order things online. “At this point, sir,” he smiled wryly, “I doubt anything would surprise me.”

Fury grinned sardonically. “Ten bucks says you’re wrong.”

Steve sighed and eyed the folder again. Much as he did not want to fight anymore, he could not ignore something like this—and he was fairly certain that Fury knew he couldn’t too. “If I do this,” he began, tossing the folder onto the counter and tapping his finger on it pointedly. “I want Agent Barnes with me.”

Fury smiled at that, a sagacious kind of smile, that made Steve’s skin crawl a little. “I expected as much. Tell her debriefing packages will be waiting for you both at her desk.” With that, he turned and headed for the door, stopping short to glance over his shoulder. “Is there anything you can tell us about the Tesseract that we ought to know now?”

Steve glanced back at the folder and sighed. “You should have left it in the ocean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Steve briefly thinks about suicide and dying, but ultimately doesn't do anything and talks about it with a healthcare professional. 
> 
> Much thanks to Juuls for putting up with me and helping me make this story perfect :D


	6. The One with the Quinjet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Last chapter before I take a week or two off to work on the last two chapters and the sequel, so I can begin uploading that as soon as possible too! 
> 
> Thank you so much for your support so far, guys, you've been awesome! 
> 
> I'll see you soon! 
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Six

—————

_The future has arrived!_

_Earlier today, Stark Tower was taken entirely off the grid and hooked up to a reactor invented by none other than Tony Stark, 41, himself. Stark, when he announced his plans for the Tower, said, “I’m going to make my tower a beacon of clean, self-sustaining energy.”_

_It certainly looks like he has succeeded!_

_… The Tower is powered 100 percent by renewable, clean energy and includes seventy-five floors reserved solely for employees of Stark Industries, now led by Virginia Potts, 38, while the twenty floors above will be reserved for Stark’s research and development and personal use. It is also one of the largest clean energy sites on the globe, though its spot at the top of the list is still threatened by Apple’s construction of a fully functional, green energy-powered campus for its employees._

_… While there has been a lot of controversy surrounding Tony Stark throughout the years, from his image as the Merchant of Death to Iron Man, we can most definitely say we are excited to see where he will be able to lead us with renewable energy!_

_—M. Chapo, The Guardian, ‘Stark Tower Goes Off the Grid’,_ 2011

—————

### S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet, International Airspace

### Steve

The soft press of Bucky’s dog tags into his skin was more soothing than Steve liked to admit, even to himself, as he stood in the middle of a jet S.H.I.E.L.D. had arranged to bring him and Becca to the location of the mission’s debrief. He reached up and pressed his fingers to the grooves that spelled out Bucky’s name discreetly, through the soft fabric of the shirt he wore at Becca’s behest.

 _Barnes, James B._  
32557038         T42      A  
                                   P

He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath and holding it for a few heartbeats before releasing it again. He’d been pushed far beyond the comfort zone he had created for himself in the last twenty-four hours, and though he _was_ well-equipped to deal with it, it was still overwhelming.

He plucked at the dark jeans Becca had insisted he wear because “you don’t _have_ to dress like you’re _actually_ ninety, Steve, God.” He’d only allowed her to guide him in what to wear a little, because his own fashion sense was hardly something to be spoken of, and he figured someone who’d actually been on S.H.I.E.L.D. mission briefings before might actually know what was appropriate.

The entire ensemble was much _tighter_ than he preferred his clothes—he’d developed a healthy aversion after the goddamned _tights_ they’d made him wear during the war—but they fit well and moved with his body comfortably, and Steve had to admit he cared very little about what he was supposed to wear as long as no one tried to take his dog tags, boots and his leather jacket from him.

He listened vaguely as the agent standing beside him—an eager fellow, who’d shaken his hand for a tad too long and grinned so wide Steve was worried he’d break his face—prattled on about the file Fury had left for him and Becca and the people featured in it.

He and Becca had split the packet evenly after Fury had left, switching out the respective files when they’d finished going through it. He’d been as surprised as Becca when her elusive friend Tony—Stark, apparently, Howard’s only child—had shown up in the pile, along with a detailed report of his past exploits and S.H.I.E.L.D. recommendations.

Of course, Steve winced a little, the recommendation had said something along the lines of “Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark, not recommended.”

Steve had to admit that he was wary of the younger Stark. He hadn’t been all too fond of Howard either, and from what he had read in the S.H.I.E.L.D. file, it sure seemed like Tony was a carbon copy of his father with absolutely zero tendency to practice any measure of discretion.

Of course, there was the fact that Becca clearly adored the man and that it had, apparently, been Stark who helped halt the Smithsonian showing of his personal drawings.

Steve had told himself, very firmly, to withhold judgement until he met the man.  

He sighed and turned his attention back to the screen Agent Coulson was showing him, silently wondering if he had done the right thing by accepting the mission and dragging Becca along.

The people featured in the files all had certain capabilities that would _definitely_ aid them in the fight against this… _Loki_ , but there were those that made Steve feel incredibly on edge, even before he had laid eyes on them. There was, for instance, Dr. Banner, who was likely the sanest person represented in the files, but who still managed to both horrify and fascinate Steve with what he’d tried to do.

“So,” he interrupted when Coulson fell silent for a moment. “This Dr. Banner was trying to replicate the serum Erskine used on me?”

Coulson shrugged and smiled at him, nodding a little. “A lot of people were. You were the world’s first superhero.” Steve fidgeted uncomfortably at the praise and the way the man looked at him, attempting valiantly to ignore the way Becca was in silent stitches behind Coulson, tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks. Steve hardly thought he deserved the moniker of ‘superhero’, especially considering there had been people during the war who had risked life and limbs to save others—who had hidden people affected by Hitler’s hate-campaign and paid for their kindness and bravery with their own lives.

All he’d done was punch—and occasionally shoot—people in the face.

“Banner thought gamma radiation might hold the key to unlocking Erskine’s original formula,” Coulson continued, unperturbed and likely unobservant of Steve’s inner turmoil.

“Didn’t really go his way there, did it?” Becca cut in sarcastically, leaning back against the quinjet’s hull, smirking in amusement when Coulson jumped a little when she spoke, as if he’d forgotten she was there too. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if the man actually _had_ forgotten, with how excited he seemed to be to be talking to him.

“Not so much,” Coulson allowed, nodding towards Becca. “He’s a regular Stephen Hawking when you take away that little issue though.”

Steve frowned, trying to recall the name—he knew he’d heard it on the news before—before Coulson cut in with a sympathetic smile. “He’s like a really smart person.”

Steve narrowly managed not to wince at the unintentional taunt and nodded silently, glaring at Becca when she didn’t do anything to _help_ him.

How was this his life?

“I’d hardly say it’s a little issue,” Steve remarked drily, ignoring Coulson’s last remark and eyeing the footage of the Hulk warily. “It seems more of the big, angry green variety.”

Becca snorted an undignified laugh while Coulson gaped, and Steve couldn’t quite suppress a grin. The pilot, a tall, pretty woman who had introduced herself as Agent Johnson, chuckled sardonically and offered Steve her fist to bump—a gesture Becca had taught him early on—winking at him when he did so. He grinned, and the tension that had coiled in his entire body loosened a little.

Becca winked at him, and Steve managed to smile back, before Agent Coulson started talking again, eyeing Steve from the corner of his eye. “It _is_ an honor to meet you, officially.”

Steve stared at him, slightly bewildered, because he was fairly certain they _had_ met officially, before Becca and Steve boarded the Quinjet. Enthusiastic as the man had been, would he not have mentioned this then?

“I sort of met you,” Coulson admitted, evidently reading Steve’s confusion. “I mean… I watched you when you were sleeping.”

Becca and the pilot guffawed in unison and Steve bit his lip _hard_ to keep from laughing as Coulson stammered, somewhat abashed, “I mean, I was… I was present while you were unconscious from the ice, I didn’t—”

“Oh my God,” Becca laughed, clutching at her stomach. “Phil, _please_ , just stop while you’re ahead.”

Steve chuckled at the slightly constipated look on Agent Coulson’s face as he leveled a glare at Becca—who gleefully ignored him and swiped Steve’s tablet from his hands before sitting down on one of the benches—and patted the man on the shoulder lightly.

While he definitely appreciated the sentiment, he still didn’t really think his presence or actions in the war warranted this kind of reverence from anyone. He had been a glorified showgirl for _months_ before he got the chance to prove himself, and he had only done so then because it had been _Bucky_. He’d have done it even if he had still been 90 pounds soaking wet.

He’d probably have failed, but he still would have tried.

“Well,” he finally said, breaking the slightly awkward silence. “I hope I’m the man for the job.”

He _did_ worry where he’d fit in between the spies, scientists and superheroes—as Stark had dubbed himself, in public, repeatedly. He’d felt entirely out of his depth as he read the files Fury had given them, unsure what value he could bring to the table.

“Of course you are,” Becca snorted, tossing an empty candy bar wrapper at him. “Fury wouldn’t have asked you if he didn’t think you were _exactly_ right for the job.”

“Absolutely,” Coulson piped in enthusiastically. “And uh… We’ve made some modifications to the uniform. I had a little design input.” He sounded incredibly proud and Steve had no idea how he was supposed to tell the man that he _hated_ that goddamned uniform with a burning passion.

He’d only stuck with it in the war because Bucky had been very… _persuasive_.

“The uniform,” he repeated warily. “Aren’t the stars and stripes a little… old fashioned?”

They’d been horrible back in the forties, and Steve couldn’t imagine people would like them any better today—although he supposed they might develop Bucky’s _appreciation_ for it, no matter how the thought made his cheeks burn and his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Becca remained silent this time, though Steve could tell she was paying close attention to the conversation by the way her head was tilted their way, her slender fingers unmoving where they were pressed against the tablet’s glass screen. They had spoken about the war, sometimes, when they were both up in the middle of the night because of nightmares and their respective demons, and Steve recalled voicing his intense dislikes of the tights several times.

He’d hated the stars and stripes even more, because they _weighed_ on him, with the many expectations and perceptions that came along with it. Sometimes, Steve wasn’t sure anyone would ever even care to know about who Steve Rogers really was anymore.

Coulson shrugged and said, “With everything that’s happening… the things that are about to come to light… People might just need a little old fashioned.”

Before he was forced to think of an awkward reply to _that_ , the pilot called Agent Coulson over and left Steve standing in the middle of the plane. He heaved a sigh and joined Becca on her bench, thumping his head back against the metal wall softly. “You could have warned me,” he said in the most reproachful tone he could manage—which, admittedly, wasn’t very reproachful at all.

“But where’s the fun in _that_?” She drawled, knocking their shoulders together playfully as she tapped the tablet’s screen a couple of times. “Besides, Coulson’s harmless. He’s a great agent and an even better leader—you’ll like him. Once he gets over his crush, that is.”

Steve snorted, but didn’t comment further—he’d learned to trust Becca’s opinion on people a little in the weeks he’d been living with her.

If she said Coulson was a good man, he likely was.

“What are you looking at?” He quizzed, leaning in so he could see what Becca was looking at on the tablet. He recognized the file and photo immediately, and had to actively fight the urge to pull the tablet from Becca’s hands and toss it across the plane.

Natasha Romanoff.

Black Widow, highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operative and future S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison for the Avengers team, _and_ Becca’s onenightstand.

_“Ah, Agent Romanoff,” Fury said, looking at someone coming up behind Steve. “Excellent. Consider your current mission aborted. Report back to Agent Coulson, he has a new assignment for you.”_

_“Romanoff?” Becca said, confusion and horror blending together in her voice. “You said your name was Rushman. Natalie Rushman.”_

His lips parted to speak—to say _anything_ , because the expression on Becca’s face when she’d realized her date was actually a highly trained spy that had been sent in to infiltrate her life by her own boss _broke_ his heart, even if she’d covered it up with amusement and forced laughter a second later—but before he could say something, Becca cut him off with a fierce glare.

“Don’t.”

The look in her eye was determined and somewhat exasperated, but he noted the way her knuckles turned white as she tightened her grip on the tablet. “Don’t say anything, Steve.”

“Becca,” he sighed, reaching out to gently pry the tablet from her grip.

“No,” Becca hissed, pulling on the tablet even as it slid from her grasp. “Steve, I don’t want to talk about this again. We’ve already discussed this enough.”

“But we haven’t,” Steve insisted, lifting the hand he held the tablet in out of Becca’s reach, even as she leaned across his lap to get it back. “We _haven’t_ talked about it _at all_ , and we should! Becca, this was a huge violation of our privacy—”

“I work with _spies_ , Steve,” Becca exclaimed exasperatedly, slapping her hand down on his chest. “I took a _very_ valuable asset from them, and I refused to let them near you. I was more surprised they _hadn’t_ done something like this before. I didn’t expect yesterday, but it’s not…” she sighed and dropped back down next to Steve, sagging against him tiredly. “It’s not surprising at all.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably, but moved so he could slip his arm around Becca, squeezing her tightly until he could feel her tense frame relaxing and her fingers unclench against his chest.

He didn’t understand this… this world of _spies_ and agents, where it was apparently more than okay to toy with someone’s life to get information, to get access to _him_ of all people. He felt more insulted than Becca did, apparently, and though she’d brushed off his concern like it had been nothing, he _cared_.

He didn’t like the idea of people taking advantage of her to get to him.

He didn’t say anything though, taking her former words to heart. The discussion was _not_ done, and he was _not_ okay with what Fury had done, but he knew how to pick his battles. However much Bucky had liked to joke Steve liked to pick _all_ the battles, he _did_ actually know when to back down.

He just didn’t do it very often.

“If you two would strap in,” Coulson interjected, and Steve froze, arm still slung around Becca’s shoulders with her face pressed against his collar bone, unsure what the Agent would make of their apparent closeness.

We’re about to land,” Coulson said succulently, eyes trailing over Steve and Becca’s entangled forms before he turned and settled in the cockpit alongside the pilot.

Steve’s cheeks flushed as he realized what Coulson must have made of their position and quickly detangled himself from Becca. “They’re going to think we’re—”

“—sleeping together?” Becca finished, raising an eyebrow at him. “Steve, honey, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure they already do. Me breaking you out of HQ and then letting you move into my spare bedroom has to be the most exciting thing that’s happened all year.”

“But you’re—” Steve hesitated and glanced towards the cockpit, unsure of whether or not Becca’s preferences were _known_ to S.H.I.E.L.D., despite how much she had claimed it wasn’t illegal anymore and no one would punish her for preferring those of her own gender over Steve’s.

“Gay?” She chuckled, patting his head. “Relax, Steve, I’m not in the closet. You think they would have sent a _female_ Agent to seduce me if it was a secret? Haven’t been since I was twelve. It’s never been a secret, but people…” she sighed heavily and shrugged. “It’s a pretty heteronormative world out there. Unless they see proof, they’re going to assume you’re straight, and even then there are those who think you just ‘haven’t met the right one’.”

Steve huffed, frowning fiercely as he considered that; after talking about it with Becca and Karen-the-therapist, he’d done some research and concluded that he felt most at ease with the term ‘bisexual’ for himself, but he couldn’t even _imagine_ being as blasé and open about it as she was.

If the world wasn’t even ready to accept someone like Becca was gay—or, as she had put it, preferred women ninety-nine percent of the time—how the hell were they going to take Captain America liking men just that little bit more than he liked women?

Becca shook her head and smiled sadly. “It’s stupid, but I don’t let it bother me. I have better things to do than to spend my entire day trying to correct people who assume you and I are sleeping together just because we’re a man and  a woman who are not related and who happen to live in the same house. Plus you used to sleep with my… great-uncle. I think. Whatever. It’d be weird to sleep with you.”

Steve snorted, but nodded. He didn’t like it, but it did make sense. “Not to mention we’re both queer as fuck,” he added, finally managing to latch the complicated seatbelt.

Becca snorted a laugh and dug her elbow between his ribs. “Yeah,” she chuckled. “That too.”

They remained quiet while the quinjet landed, though Steve briefly shut his eyes and squeezed Becca’s hand as tightly as he dared before they touched down, because he might have been dealing with his issues, but this was the first time he’d been on a plane since he had crashed the Valkyrie, and his mind was doing its very best to remind him of the moment he crashed into the icy water over and over again.

Becca kept up a steady stream of nonsensical whispering as the quinjet touched down, and Steve had never been more grateful for her friendship—she didn’t even mention the way he’d flinched when the landing gear had made contact with the ground.

“We’re gonna be fine, Steve,” she whispered to him as Coulson gestured towards the opened ramp, squeezing her slender fingers around his briefly one more time before she let go to unbuckle herself.

He hoped she was right.

Then again…

How bad could it possibly be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely Juuls for beta-ing and helping me wrestle this little thing into something remotely worth posting :D


	7. The One with the Norse Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! *waves* 
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay, but as I said, most of this chapter needed to be rewritten to fit the storyline properly. I hope you guys enjoy! I am going home from Vienna tomorrow, which is a fifteen-hour busride, so I hope I'll be able to do most of the work that still needs to be done on chapter eight then!
> 
> In the mean time, enjoy the extra long chapter, and thank you for sticking with me!
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Seven

—————

_Passes to the opening gala for Kunst Halle Planie’s new exhibition, ‘Die Alte Kunst Mesopotamiens’, sold out like hotcakes three hours after they had been made available to the public. It was Stuttgart’s most anticipated event, both by art history enthusiasts and historians alike, with planned guest speakers such a Dr. Heinrich Schäfer, who was instrumental in restoring some of the Mesopotamian artwork displayed, and Dr. Richard S. Ellis, who wrote extensively on the subject of Mesopotamian art and its archaeological impact._

_…Once inside, however, the main attraction did not turn out to be, as expected, the artwork and the carefully planned speeches, but rather an as of yet unknown man who attacked Dr. Schäfer in the middle of the man’s speech. In a rather gruesome turn, Dr. Schäfer’s eye was gauged out and the man, who clearly displayed some sort of superhuman ability, subdued the frightened crowd._

_…Our reporters were not at the scene, but eyewitnesses speak of blinding lights and the same man appearing before them in an outfit which would not have been out of place at a Renaissance fair. All seemed quite hopeless until one man stepped in…_

_Captain America himself._

_There has been no confirmation whether this man was sent by the U.S. government or if the mantle of Captain America has finally been taken up by someone else after seventy years, but whoever he was, he did not seem to be a match for the unknown man until none other than Tony Stark’s Iron Man stepped in and the unknown man was taken into custody._

_…Many unanswered questions yet remain, but one thing is certain, Kunst Halle Planie’s gala will not soon be forgotten._

_—S. Auerbach, Der Spiegel, ‘Artful chaos at museum gala’_

—————

### S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, International Airspace

### Steve

Steve’s entire body was sore, and he felt like he could easily sleep an entire day away. He took great care to hide that exhaustion, eyeing the screen that showed Fury conversing with Loki.

The alien God’s smug disposition made Steve’s skin crawl and he had to actively fight the urge to yank at the tight uniform he’d been squeezed into, to rid himself of the proverbial box Loki had shoved him into with nothing more than a few careless words.

 _The soldier. A man out of time_.

Steve _hadn’t_ felt like he was a man out of time since the first few weeks after he’d been defrosted, before he’d moved in with Becca and before he’d started therapy.

He’d been doing _good_.

He hadn’t felt out of place in a long while, but Loki’s words had somehow shoved him right back in that destructive mindset, and he was struggling to pull himself out before he became compromised.

It was like Loki saw past all of the progress he’d made, past all of the carefully-erected barriers he had pulled up around the wounded remains of the man he used to be, the man he’d always _wanted_ to be, and saw right into the core of who he actually was—who he had always been.

It was entirely unnerving.

He shifted his seat back a little and glanced towards Becca, who was chewing her lower lip and glaring at the tiny Loki on the screen as her hands curled into loose fists on the table. She was paler than she had been when they’d arrived and she looked about as exhausted as Steve felt. She had, thankfully, not been beaten up by a Norse God, so far, so Steve considered that a win.

He could tell she was still worried though, her concern for Clint outweighing her rational thinking.  Coulson and three other agents had been forced to hold her back when they escorted Loki to his cell.

Steve couldn’t blame her.

He’d probably try to beat answers out of Loki too, if he thought it would actually help save lives.

They’d only been on this mission for less than twelve hours, but Steve already felt like several _weeks’_ worth of events had taken place, shattering the little bubble of peace he had created for himself.

 _Lord_ , he was tired.

The monitor went black and it almost felt like some of the tension lodged between Steve’s shoulders dissipated along with the image of the dark-haired God, although the atmosphere at the table remained tense. They had all been taken aback by Loki’s easy surrender in Stuttgart and Thor’s sudden appearance midflight, and it showed on the faces around the table.

Becca’s sharp focus on Loki notwithstanding, even Agent Hill, who Steve had actually met once on a run, unaware of who she was—he’d done an actual double-take when he’d been introduced to her on the bridge—looked like she was trying to solve an intricate, complicated riddle, tapping at the screen of her tablet impatiently.

Romanoff almost looked indifferent, but Steve spotted her fingers twitching against her upper arm a few times, almost like she wanted to reach out and punch Loki as much as the rest of them did.

Thor looked most disturbed by the conversation and was frowning something fierce, and Steve wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about this other God. Coulson had sworn up and down that Thor was to be trusted, that he had already proven himself an ally to earth, but Steve was still doubtful.

There was something about the taller man that unnerved Steve entirely.

Something that had made his mouth go dry the moment he had actually gotten a chance to _look_ at the new, possibly slightly less homicidal, Asgardian arrival. Something that made his heart pound in his chest so loudly he was almost sure Thor would have been able to hear it when he shook Steve’s hand. It was something Steve hadn’t felt since before he had been forced to watch the love of his life fall off a cliff when Steve failed to save him.

He’d found his eyes lingering on the other man’s—admittedly incredibly impressive—biceps for just a beat too long, and it made him feel _nauseous._ He didn’t _want_ to feel attracted to _anyone_ but Bucky.

“He really grows on you, doesn’t he?” Dr. Banner drawled sardonically, stalking away from the monitor with jerked, short movements, drawing Steve’s attention back to him. The doctor had been relatively quiet up to this point, and Steve had to admit the doctor’s levelheaded temperament surprised him greatly, after everything he had heard so far.

“Yeah,” Becca snorted beside him, kicking up her foot to rest against the back of Steve’s armrest. “Like a fucking fungus.”

Steve’s lips curled up into an involuntary smile before he forced himself to _focus_ on the problem at hand. He sighed and looked up at Thor, who still stood at the head of the table, hands clenching into fists uselessly. “He’s gonna try to drag this out, isn’t he?” He waited until Thor’s eyes met his and shook his head a little. “What’s his play, Thor?”

Everyone collectively turned from the screen to look at the tall, exceptionally handsome—and _Lord_ , he needed to get his head back in the game, because this was _not_ the time—God of Thunder.

“It seems he has procured an army, called the Chitauri,” Thor finally spoke with a heavy sigh, his tone grave as he crossed his arms across his chest. “They’re not of Asgard or any world known. From what we understand, he means to lead them against your people.” There was a note of sorrow to his words, something deep and _painful_ that made Steve feel a little queasy. “They are to win Earth for him,” Thor continued, shaking his head sadly. “In return, I suspect, for the Tesseract.”

“An army…” Steve sighed and leaned back in his seat. “How do you know about this? You said, earlier… you said you thought he was dead for over a year.”

Everyone at the table froze, and Becca’s foot dropped back to the floor with an audible _thump_. Steve could tell everyone was surprised that he questioned the man further, but he’d learned a long time never to take information at face value.

Not checking someone’s motivation for volunteering information could get him and the others killed—it _had_ gotten others killed in the past, during… _before_.

Thor, however, didn’t seem at all put out by Steve’s insistence on questioning him further—he seemed pretty damn _delighted_ —and beamed a bright grin at Steve. “A most astute observation, Captain.” He sobered quickly, fingers twitching towards his neck in an aborted gesture Steve recognized all too well before he spoke again. “I believed my brother dead for… too long. My mother...”

He took a deep, shuddering breath and smiled weakly. “ _Our_ mother and Loki share a connection I cannot understand. She knew he was alive, and it was she who uncovered his plot. Father and Heimdall sent me here as soon as we realised he had already begun his assault on Earth.”

Thor kept his gaze on Steve as he spoke, his tone even other than the moments his breath hitched in clear emotional distress. Steve appreciated the God’s candor, and though he could tell the man was being truthful, there was something he _wasn’t_ telling them too. The look in Thor’s eye was one Steve recognized, though, and he was loathe to push someone to open up about their grief.

He couldn’t imagine finding himself in Thor’s shoes.

Slowly, he leaned back in his seat and offered the other man a tight smile. “Okay. So, an army?”

“From outer space, no less,” Becca piped up beside him, and Steve could see her leaning forward eagerly from the corner of his eye. “How is he doing that?”

The discussion rapidly devolved into a series of back and forths with scientific terms that flew right over his head, but the implication sank in nonetheless. If Loki managed to get the things that he needed to open the portal, he would be able to bring an army of monsters to Earth to destroy and take over everything Steve had fought for—everything he was still learning and growing to love.

The nausea he’d felt earlier welled back up again at the thought of Becky’s cozy little home being torn apart by monsters, of his family—the little he had left—being taken from him…

Was he destined to lose everything he cared about _twice_?

Because of one man’s delusions of grandeur?

Eighty people were already dead, and Loki had only been on earth for two days.

Imagining the amount of havoc he could wreak with an entire army backing him up and unlimited time in their world was downright terrifying.

He was abruptly drawn from his thoughts when Tony Stark flounced inside, immediately engaging Dr. Banner before Becca dropped the thin veneer of professionalism and launched herself off her seat and into the dark-haired man’s arms with a sound that Steve could only describe as a s _queal_.

The sight of the genius stumbling back a step or two, arms sticking straight ahead for a few seconds before he folded them around Becca and patted her back lightly was nothing short of comical.

Steve had heard a few things about Tony from Becca over the weeks they’d lived together, and though they may not have gotten off to the best start in Stuttgart, it was easy to see the open affection on the billionaire’s face at Becca’s enthusiasm, even if the hug itself seemed to make him slightly uncomfortable. “Hey kiddo,” Stark said quietly—so quietly Steve doubted anyone but Becca and Steve himself had heard him—as he pushed her off gently.

“Is that your gear for the field—this… this isn’t even bulletproof,” he tugged on the strap of Becca’s vest with a sneer, shaking his head decisively. “Becs, that won’t do. I can do better. You need to come by the Tower, I’ll make you something better. You need new toys, and Aunt Peggy would kill me if I let something happen to her favorite godchild.”

Steve narrowly suppressed the urge to chuckle at the downright offended look on Agent Coulson’s face, but the casual mention of Peggy made his heart clench and drew his attention away again.

He knew she was alive.

It was one of the first things Becky had told him when he’d emerged from his self-imposed exile again.

He hadn’t seen her. She lived in England, and though he had heard Becca talk to her on the phone several times, he’d declined every time she offered to let him speak to her as well. He didn’t think… he didn’t think he could handle hearing Peggy’s voice, cracked with age, so unlike the vibrant young woman she still was in his mind.

He’d seen her only a few months ago—seen her as a beautiful twenty-four year-old woman. He didn’t think he could handle seeing her as a ninety-three year-old yet.

He watched, feeling slightly detached from the entire situation, as Stark patted Thor’s massive bicep with slightly widened eyes—and Steve felt an odd sense of vindication to know he wasn’t the only one affected by the god's… _exceptional_ appearance—before moving on to tap at every screen he passed, blathering on about something or the other before calling out a S.H.I.E.L.D. tech for playing…

Steve honestly didn’t know _what_ the young man was supposedly playing, and he didn’t really care.

He glanced down at his tablet and tried to make sense of the scientific notes Becca had sent to him, but they went _way_ over his head, _again_. He’d tried not to feel out of his depth before, but after facing Loki and getting his ass handed to him, after nearly being electrocuted by Thor and after hearing the kind of science Dr. Banner and Stark talked about like they were simply discussing their favorite TV show…

He glanced around the table surreptitiously, eyeing the spies, the agents, the god, the _geniuses,_ and he wondered where the hell he came in.

He looked down at his tablet again and sighed.

What the hell was he doing here?

—————

### Steve

He’d sequestered himself in an abandoned little corner of the Helicarrier as soon as he could reasonably excuse himself, his hands trembling by the time he’d managed to find the privacy he’d been desperately craving.

Before he’d been able to escape the frenzied melee of the bridge, a bright-eyed, fresh-faced S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had appeared before him, stuttering and blushing as they offered him a small moleskin notebook full of their favorite movies, books, TV shows and music.

_“Suggestions,” they’d said with bright red cheeks. “For things to try in the 21 st century.” _

It had been a gesture of kindness, Steve was sure, but after Loki’s words, the little black book served only as a further reminder that he wasn’t _home_. He didn’t belong _here_ , in this century, and he hadn’t felt that this keenly since the first day after he’d been… _woken up_.

He had smiled, though, and taken the notebook with forced cheer, words of thanks falling from his lips without much thought or sincerity behind them, before he’d been able to slip away.

The little nook he’d found was not too far from where the prisoner— _Loki_ —was being held, so he’d be available right away if there was any kind of emergency, but isolated enough that he wouldn’t be disturbed until he was good and ready to face another person.

He’d initially planned to stick to his intended path, deeper into the bowels of the Helicarrier, but he’d been sidetracked by the raised voices by the door where Loki was being held. He’d intended to go inside, to see why someone was stupid enough to _provoke_ the very dangerous, very volatile prisoner, but had backed off almost immediately when he recognized Thor’s voice and hid in his easily-overlooked alcove around the corner.

He may not have been privy to their family issues, but he understood enough to realise that if anyone would be able to get what they needed from the Trickster, it would be Thor.

 _“Please—be—_ think _—Loki!”_

Even with his enhanced hearing, Steve could barely make out Thor’s impassioned words, and with some difficulty, he managed to draw his attention back to himself, his breath punching out of his lungs in a quick, sharp exhale when he realized his trembling fingers had taken the pencil and paper in his hands as permission to begin sketching again.

Bucky’s eyes—a messy, slightly skewed rendition—stared up at him from the page of the little notebook, and Steve suddenly felt lightheaded, small and weak like he hadn’t felt in _years_.

“Was this what it was like?” he whispered to the doodle of Bucky’s eyes, helpless tears burning in his eyes. “Was this what you felt like when I got the serum?” He knew Bucky had struggled with reconciling the idea of his skinny little fella back in Brooklyn with the tall, muscled soldier that had pulled him out of the factory in Azzano at first; that the protective instinct Bucky had nursed for nearly a decade and a half had been difficult to shake—if not impossible.

He’d told Steve, once, that it was _ridiculous_ , trying to wrap his head around Steve being _strong_ er than him when he’d been able to pick Steve up with one arm for most of their life together.

Steve had never really understood the feeling.

Until now.

He’d always been the strongest in whatever fight he picked after he’d received the serum.

He hadn’t been outmatched by anyone since 1944, and he couldn’t quite wrap his head around being so entirely out of his league when it came to Loki—and Thor, by extension.

The god had tossed him around like a damn ragdoll.

He was so ridiculously out of his league it was almost laughable.

When he looked down at the little notebook again, he realized he had doodled a fairly accurate depiction of Bucky’s face, down to the slightest hint of the pout of his lower lip which Steve had always been powerless to resist. “Lord, I miss you,” Steve breathed, trailing his fingers across the sharp line of Bucky’s jaw. “I’m outta my league, Buck. I don’t know what to do.”

His drawing of Bucky, of course, didn’t reply, nor did it give him any sudden insights.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes slipping shut as he took a few deep breaths to steady himself, as Karen-the-therapist had taught him to do when he felt overwhelmed.

Before he could properly steady himself, though, the door to the room Loki was being held in slammed open, banging against the metal wall with such an almighty _bang_! it made Steve jump, hitting his head against the top of the little alcove _hard_.

“Damn it!” he cried out, dropping the notebook and pencil as he fell back, cradling his sore head in his hands with tears of shock burning in his eyes.

“Captain!”

Through blurred eyes he watched as a large, blond blob with Thor’s voice hurried towards him, settling on his knees before Steve. “I did not mean to startle you. I apologize. I hope you did not injure yourself severely?” The words were phrased as a question, but Steve could feel Thor’s fingers gently push his own aside to search for injuries along his scalp.

He diligently ignored how _good_ it felt to be touched with tenderness by someone other than Becca or Becky—something Karen-the-therapist _had_ pointed out he might benefit from.

“I’m fine,” he told Thor slightly sourly, closing his fingers around the god’s thick wrists and pulling them down. “It’ll barely leave a lump.”

Thor sat back and smiled brightly, nodding happily. “Excellent. I shall not detain you any longer, then.” The taller man made to get to his feet, likely to leave Steve to his solitude and his increasingly loud thoughts, and suddenly Steve couldn’t _stand_ the idea of being alone anymore.

“Wait,” he blurted, hand shooting out to curl his fingers around Thor’s wrist again. “I heard you…” He nodded towards Loki’s cell sheepishly and smiled tightly when Thor looked at him with wide, alarmed eyes. “I ain’t no snitch,” he said quickly. “I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D. has any business putting their noses in the mess between you and him, but…”

He bit his lip and shrugged. “I get what it’s like to be… the odd man out. If you needed someone to talk to, without judgement...” His cheeks burned and he was almost afraid to look up at Thor, but he did so anyway, because Sarah Rogers didn’t raise no coward. “I’m willing to listen.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d extended the invitation—he hardly felt like good company at the moment—but he was pretty sure Thor wouldn’t care all too much.

Something told him that the man would have very few preconceptions about Steve, and that if he did wish for Steve’s company, he’d want it because he liked Steve Rogers, not Captain America.

It was a refreshing change.

Even with the Barneses, there was a certain amount of expectation, a certain image he had to live up to, regardless of how many times they’d tried to tell him he didn’t—

He was so tired of trying to be several versions of himself.

Thor was silent for a few moments longer before he nodded, settling himself cross-legged on the floor before Steve. “Much appreciated, Captain.” He reached out and retrieved the notebook and pencil from where they’d landed when Steve had dropped them, eyes lingering on the sketch of Bucky before he handed it back to Steve with a sad smile.

“Your fallen mate, I take it?” Thor asked with a gentleness that belied the directness of the question.

Steve nodded jerkily, dragging his fingers across Bucky’s likeness one more time before he snapped the book shut and refocused his attention on Thor. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not, I think, for you.” Thor said softly, patting his hand on top of Steve’s, the sadness in his eye reflecting and mirroring Steve’s own. From what Steve had gathered, Thor’s own loss was felt as keenly as Steve’s, even if his brother was still alive and breathing on the other end of the door.

“No,” Steve admitted quietly. “Not for me.”

Thor nodded in understanding and sighed heavily. “It is, sadly, a feeling I know too well.” He glanced over his shoulder, in Loki’s general direction before he continued. “I mourned my brother for a year before I learned he lived, but now… You must understand.” He leaned forward and looked at Steve pleadingly. “I have spent over a thousand years with Loki by my side. I know him better than he knows himself—I knew of his jealousy, his hurt, his designs on the throne, and I failed to take them seriously… but I have never seen him like… like _this_.”

Thor waved one large hand in the Trickster’s general direction before dropping it again.

“Loki has always been many things,” Thor sighed, “but he has never been a cold-blooded killer.”

Steve opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but Thor interrupted him before he could speak, a look that was disturbingly _human_ and _relatable_ flashing across the _god_ ’s features before vanishing entirely. “I know, I’ve been told of his various misdeeds in the past two days, but he is not like himself. Something is _odd_ about my brother, and I do not know what it is.”   

Steve fell silent, unsure of what to say to that.

He knew, intimately, what it felt like to have the most important person in the world to you ripped away, and it wasn’t a feeling he wished on anyone.

“Have you raised your concerns with Fury?” he asked, instead of questioning Thor’s judgement, because Steve was pretty sure he wouldn’t listen to anyone if they tried to tell him Bucky was evil either. Thor _had_ spent the better part of a millennium with Loki—who the hell was Steve, a stranger who hadn’t even lived three _decades_ , to tell him he was wrong about the man?

Thor frowned impressively and nodded. “He insisted my judgement was awry, but I am not some young whelp. Despite my faults, I _know_ him. I snuck in to speak to my brother myself, to convince him to undo this madness, but it is as though it has mingled with his blood and burned itself into his bones. I do not know what madness grasps my brother, but I know it is not his doing. Not entirely.”

Frustration towards Fury boiled to the surface of Steve’s mind again, and his hands curled into fists before he calmed himself. He didn’t _need_ to trust Fury to help the rest of the team get the Tesseract back and ensure it fell into the right hands. He certainly didn’t need Fury’s opinion to listen to Thor and believe the other man.

He reached out and clasped Thor’s forearm, squeezing his fingers lightly. “You don’t need to convince me. It’s like you said: we don’t know Loki, you do, even when he is… _whatever_ he is right now. What do you need me to do?”

Thor’s forehead creased into a frown and he shook his head dejectedly. “I do not know,” he said honestly. “I feel I am at a disadvantage in this world. I do not know enough of Midgardian customs to deduce my next move.” It was an unreal sight, the tall Asgardian, who was bigger than _Steve_ , hunching in on himself as he tried to think of a way to end a war before it had well and truly begun.

Steve bit his lip and frowned when he remembered his earlier conversation with Dr. Banner and Stark.

“Well,” he drawled. “I might have an idea on where to begin.”

—————

### Steve

He hadn’t been this angry, this fueled with unbridled _rage_ since he had woken up, and he had almost forgotten how it made his skin crawl and his entire body _itch_ for a fight.

Hydra weapons.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been messing around with _Hydra_ _weapons_ and using the cube to make more.

The automatic rifle was heavy in his hand and his mind was spinning with the implications of what he had found, of what Tony Stark had implied, and he had no idea who to trust anymore. He tried not to think about whether Becca had known what S.H.I.E.L.D. had been doing, tried not to think about if she’d deliberately been keeping it from him, because he _liked_ Becca, and he wanted to trust her more than anything—but he had only known her for a few weeks, hadn’t he?

For all he knew, everything she’d done for him, everything that had happened since she’d ‘taken’ him from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody, could have been planned to make sure he’d trust her.

They could have used _Becky_ to make him trust them.

He couldn’t— _couldn’t_ —consider the possibility she was in on it, too. Becky had been his and Bucky’s favorite girl when they’d been kids. She was their little sister, and Steve can’t imagine that that sweet girl— _woman_ —would agree to do something like this to him.

He just couldn’t _._

He rounded the corner, hardly waiting to see if Thor was still following him, and stomped into the lab without slowing down, not even a little bit fazed at finding Fury arguing with Stark and Banner.

“What _is_ Phase Two?” Stark asked, head tilted to the side as he looked at Fury.

Steve dropped the assault rifle on the table with a loud _clang_ , making sure every eye in the room was on him as he seethed, “Phase Two is S.H.I.E.L.D. uses the cube to make weapons and ignores Thor when he says there’s more going on here.”

The god trailed up behind him, silent support, but Steve didn’t have to look to know he’d be frowning at Fury. Thor had been mostly silent after they’d uncovered the crate of weapons, but Steve had made sure he understood the implications of what they’d found.

He couldn’t fucking _believe_ this.

Stark’s eyes were wide as he glanced between Steve and Thor intermittently, and Steve narrowly suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at him.

He’d never been _that_ fond of Howard, regardless of the other man’s clear fondness of him—and Bucky, despite his sneering at their lack of higher education—and he wasn’t sure why he’d expected he’d feel so different about his son. Clearly the younger Stark hadn’t bothered to actually listen to Peggy and Howard when they spoke about _him_ , rather than Captain America.

“Sorry,” he offered insincerely. “Computer was moving a little slow for me.”

He drew his eyes from Tony slowly and turned his attention to Fury, who was already moving towards him with placating words that did nothing to soothe the burning embers of Steve’s rage. “Rogers, we gathered everything related to the Tesseract. This does not mean we’re—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nick,” Stark interrupted with a raised eyebrow as he swung the large computer screen around so they could see the blueprints it showed. “What were you lying?”

Steve scoffed at Fury and hooked his thumbs in the stupid belt on his stupid _fucking_ suit. “I was wrong, Director. The world hasn’t changed a bit.” Before any of them could say more, Becca strode in, followed closely by Agent Romanoff, and Steve’s entire focus narrowed onto his roommate.

“Did you know about this?” he demanded angrily as he stepped towards her, gesturing towards the computer screen. “Were you keeping this from me?”

He felt momentarily guilty when Becca stumbled back a little, obviously taken aback by his hostile attitude. Her eyes— _so much like Bucky’s_ , damn it—widened and she stared at the screen in confusion, eyes darting over the details lightning-quick, before turning back towards him with a determined expression. “No, of course not. What is this?”

“Rogers, Agent Barnes didn’t have the clearance—” Fury started, but Steve didn’t want to _hear_ it, because _nothing_ he’d been told seemed to be the truth, so why the hell would this be?

“Steve,” Becca tried, stepping towards him with her hands raised in a placating gesture and _damn_ if it didn’t piss him off more.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed, yanking his arm from her reach as he glared at her, ignoring the way she almost flinched back from him, no matter how it made him burn with guilt. “Is anything you told me true?” His mind was filled with memories of their conversations over the past three weeks, of the way he had _confided_ in her, and he was _horrified_ by the idea that Becca might have been following Fury’s orders all along.

“Hey, come on, Capsicle,” Stark jumped in, resting a hand on Becca’s shoulder to pull her back a little, almost as though _Steve_ was the dangerous one.

He stepped forward again, angry words on the tip of his tongue when Agent Romanoff cut in, eyes on Dr. Banner, who stood tense and angry at the far end of the lab. “You wanna think about removing yourself from his environment, doctor?”

“I was in Calcutta,” Dr. Banner replied scathingly. “I was pretty well removed.”

Steve lost interest in their end of the conversation pretty swiftly, eyes drawn to where Becca stood with Tony, the billionaire’s hand still on her shoulder as they both stared at Banner and Agent Romanoff.

Steve wasn’t an idiot, contrary to popular belief, and while he may not always have been the brains behind the operations with the Howlies, he was no slacker, and he had not been blind to the way Stark had glared at him when Steve had turned to Becca earlier, when he had put his hand on her arm to check on her. Though Steve was still mystified by their interaction, he gathered it meant the billionaire cared about Becca, at least.

He wasn’t sure why that idea bothered him so much, now.

“The world’s filling up with people who can’t be matched,” Fury exclaimed exasperatedly, as though that was supposed to make his experimenting alright. “People that can’t be controlled.”

“Like you controlled the cube?” Steve hissed scathingly, ignoring the way the anger burning through his veins felt _off_ , because he was just _so_ done with the way S.H.I.E.L.D. was handling this whole damned thing, and he just wanted to be back at Becca’s old little apartment with the sagging couch and the computer she’d hooked up to the television so Steve could google Youtube videos easily.

He just didn’t want to be _here_.

“Nuclear deterrent,” Tony deadpanned, and much as Steve was inclined to hate the man based simply on his wealth, he agreed with him there—even if he still wasn’t entirely clear on what nuclear weapons _were_. “Cause that always calms everything right down.”

“Remind me again how you made your fortune, Stark?” Fury sniped, raising a single eyebrow at Tony.

Steve couldn’t help but sneer, despite his unvoiced agreement with the man from the moment before, “I’m sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck deep—”

“Wait, wait, hold up,” the older man started forward, waving his hands in an approximation of confusion that pissed Steve off more than anything else Stark had done so far. “How is this now about me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Steve mocked, turning towards the dark-haired man again. “Isn’t everything?”

Something close to satisfaction warmed him when Stark reeled back as though Steve had slapped him, but his mind felt clouded and he couldn’t quite remember _why_ he wanted to piss Stark off so badly. He was just _so fucking frustrated_.

“Steve!”

He snapped his head to the side when Becca slapped his arm, something ugly in the back of his mind sneering at her confused expression. “Come on, that’s not fair.”

“Like you’ve been fair to me?” The words fell from his lips without his express permission and, in the back of his mind, he cringed at the hurt expression on her face—but he didn’t stop. “How do I know you’ve not been lying to me?”

Stark scoffed at him and wrapped his fingers around Becca’s wrist to pull her back towards him. “Ignore Golden Boy, Becca,” he sneered. “Clearly he needs to get laid more. Too uptight.”

“Tony!” Both Becca and Dr. Banner turned to glare at Stark, but Steve didn’t _care_ , because that rich son-of-a-bitch just kept pushing _every single button_ he had. “I swear to God, Stark,” he hissed, “one more stupid crack—”

“Threatening!” Stark shouted dramatically. “I feel threatened!”

The situation only devolved further, and Steve wasn’t even sure who he was arguing with anymore, only that every single person in the room was pissing him off so much that he had to restrain himself from punching _all_ of them through the goddamned wall.

Agent Romanoff’s clear, seemingly unaffected voice pierced through the haze of anger that clouded his mind, and he turned towards her subconsciously, even as she addressed Dr. Banner.

“You need to step away,” she enunciated slowly, eyeing Dr. Banner meaningfully, and though he was still angry, he couldn’t disagree with her logic. The last thing they needed was the fucking Hulk tearing through the air… ship… whatever.

“Why shouldn’t the guy blow off a little steam?” Steve’s blood nearly _boiled_ when Stark tossed an arm around him in a gesture that was _too_ reminiscent of the way Bucky used to before he’d drag Steve in for a playful kiss, before—

“You know damn well why,” Steve snapped, shoving Stark back a little harder than he intended to, but _damn it_ he didn’t want anyone else to fucking put their hands on him like that. “Back off!”

The rest of the room faded a little bit when Stark swaggered back towards him, stepping right up into Steve’s personal space—and Steve was completely taken aback to realise that Stark was not… _unfortunate_ looking. “Oh, I’m starting to want you to make me,” Stark shot back challengingly.

Steve’s heart pounded, and he couldn’t suppress the thoughts of his fights with Bucky, of the way his best guy had been able to make him _burn_ with anger as well as desire, and of the way this— _this_ —felt frighteningly familiar.

It pissed him off beyond anything he could even comprehend.

“Big man in a suit of armor,” he hissed, frightened by how much Stark was able to rile him up. “What are you when you take that off?”

Stark scoffed, but his reply came so swiftly Steve almost believed him capable of reading Steve’s mind and fucking preparing for his question before he’d even spoken it aloud. “Genius, philanthropist, reformed playboy, billionaire,” the other man finished smugly, and it _pissed_ him off.

What—did Stark _honestly_ believe that having money made him better than everyone else?

“I know guys with none of that worth ten of you,” he spit, the faces of the Howlies stuck in the forefront of his mind, the way they’d all had a little too much experience with being barely able to scrape up enough money to get by, to feed themselves and their families.

Howard had been _just_ like this.

More money than God and tossing it around like it meant nothing.

Like the five dollars Bucky had worked himself to the bone for, to pay for Steve’s medicine, were worthless. Like it meant nothing, when it meant _everything_. 

Of course his kid would end up the same.

“Steve, come on, that’s not fair,” Becca piped up, pushing past Stark and pressing her hand against his chest almost like she was trying to hold him back from—from _what_? Telling Stark the fucking truth for once in his stupid, spoiled existence? “You don’t know Tony, he’s—”

“Please.” He shoved her aside—slightly more gently than he would with anyone else, he wasn’t _that_ much of an asshole—and glared at Stark. “I’ve seen the footage, I read the file. The only thing you fight for is yourself. You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play—to lay down on the wire and let the other guy crawl over you.”

He’d seen situations like that all too often in the war, had seen friends shove others out of the way and save their lives at the cost of their own—he’d lost _Bucky_ because the other man had taken up the shield to defend Steve when he was down…

Every single one of those men and women, who risked their lives, who _gave_ their lives to save others…

They were the heroes to Steve.

Not the fucking billionaire in an iron suit.

Stark, however, didn’t seem too            perturbed and shrugged. “I think I’d just cut the wire.”

He had, as Steve expected, entirely missed Steve’s point. “Always a way out, isn’t there?” Steve smiled wryly, shaking his head. He didn’t really know why he’d hoped Tony would prove to be smarter than his father had been in that department. “You know, you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be a hero.”

He almost expected Becca to butt in again, but when he looked to the side, she’d been caught up in a fierce argument with Agent Romanoff, and before he could determine what they were talking about, Tony pushed forward into his space and poked at his chest angrily.

“A _hero_? Like you?” Stark scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking _lab rat_ , Rogers. Everything special about you came from a _bottle_.”

Steve reeled back, struck by Stark’s words more than he wanted to admit—it hit right on the old insecurities he’d been wrestling with his entire life that doubled after the serum and, somehow, people liked him; Steve never stopped wondering how many of the people he met, how many of the friends he’d made would’ve been his friends if they’d met him when he was still scrawny and sickly—but Stark just pushed on, a glint in his eye telling Steve the other man knew _exactly_ how much those words hit home for Steve.

“Too bad the bottle came from a Stark, too, isn’t it?” Steve’s mouth opened, but no words fell from his lips, and Stark just smirked at him. “Can’t even pick your own girl.” Steve’s eyes went wide as Tony gestured towards Becca with a careless gesture. “Had to run with my sloppy seconds there, too.”

Steve wasn’t sure if it was the implication that he was sleeping with Becca—something the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed to have convinced themselves of—or the callous way Stark spoke of her, but his hands had curled into fists and he’d taken a step towards the shorter man before he could stop himself, halted only when Thor reached out and curled his hand around Steve’s bicep.

Too late, Steve realized the others had fallen silent, too, and he turned to find Becca staring at Tony with wide, horrified eyes. “Tony,” she breathed, _hurt_ and _anger_ both evident in her tone, and Steve was baffled to see Stark look as though he, too, had been surprised and a little appalled by his own words—but he didn’t move to take them back.

“Put on the suit,” Steve hissed, the look of utter hurt and betrayal on Becca’s face making him _ache_ somewhere deep inside his chest as the argument around them slowly resumed, the fiery anger he’d been feeling since he’d found the weapons rearing back up. “Let’s go a few rounds.”

He glared at Stark, puffing up his chest a little, because he _would not_ fucking let this jumped up asshole _win_ , damn it. He didn’t take his eyes off of Tony’s—and a distant part of his mind noted that he’d never seen that shade of brown before, with just that hint of orange shining through—until Thor piped up behind them again and Stark looked away, rubbing at his eyes blearily.

Steve lost the thread of the conversation again when Becca tried to push past him, towards Tony. Before he could stop himself, he curled his fingers around her wrist to hold her back, because he’d _seen_ , he’d _seen_ how much Tony’s words had hurt her and, even though he was still pissed off to high fucking hell, he was reluctant to let her near the other man again.

“You can’t, _I tried_!”

The words pierced through their argumentative haze, and Steve’s head swiveled around to Banner, who stood by the scepter, sheepishness and anger warring for dominance in his expression. “I got low,” he continued when everyone stopped to stare at him. “I didn’t see an end, so I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it out!”

Steve winced and tightened his grip on Becca’s wrist, because his anger was rapidly ebbing away and he remembered enough of Becca’s vague tales of her first few months after she’d been discharged from the Army to know she’d been that low, too, and that she’d tried that once.

He very definitively did _not_ think of how low he had found himself after Bucky had died.

He hadn’t been suicidal, per se, but when the opportunity had come, he hadn’t fought to get away from it—crashing the Valkyrie had been a way out, too.

He understood.

Dr. Banner swallowed thickly before he continued, and Steve tensed a little when the other man’s hand crept towards the scepter, almost like Banner himself didn’t even realise what he was doing. “So I moved on. I focused on helping other people. I was good, until you dragged me back into this freak show and put everyone here at risk! You wanna know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You wanna know how I stay calm?”

Before Banner could step forward and do something he’d likely regret, Steve stepped forward, well aware that every single agent in the room had their hands on their guns. “Dr. Banner,” he began gently, raising a hand in what he hoped would be perceived as a peaceful gesture. “Put down the scepter.”

Before Banner could say anything or anyone could move, the computer beeped loudly, and both Stark and Banner immediately swerved towards it, eyes wide and intrigued. “Sorry, kids,” Banner said gruffly, setting down the scepter. “Guess you don’t get to see my little party trick after all.”

“Have you located the Tesseract?”

Fury sounded both exasperated and eager, and Steve finally released his grip on Becca’s wrist so they could move closer to look at the map splayed out across the monitor.

“I can get there faster,” Stark exclaimed after spending all of four seconds looking at the screen, spinning on his heel towards the door before Becca caught his arm.

“Tony, that’s really not—”

“Look, Stark,” Fury cut in almost simultaneously. “All of us—”

Stark just disregarded all of them and flounced towards the door, and Steve had been _right,_ damn it, Stark was _not_ a team player and he was only doing this to get the credit in the end. He grabbed at Stark’s arm, dragging the shorter man back with ease. “You’re not going _alone_ , Stark.”

“You gonna stop me, Capsicle?”

Steve sneered at the man and pushed forward into Stark’s personal space again. “Put on the suit. We’ll find out,” he taunted.

“I’m not afraid to hit an old man,” Stark answered derisively, poking against Steve’s chest aggressively.

“Put. On. The. Suit.”

Before anyone could do anything else, there was an enormous explosion, rocking the Helicarrier sideways violently. Steve felt the heat of the fire burn on his skin, and windows shattered as smoke and fire blew out through the openings. Thousands of pieces of glass and steel rained down on them and alarms—shrill and deafening to Steve’s sensitive ears—erupted into shrill squeals, as though they wouldn’t be able to tell something bad had happened by the way the Helicarrier tilted alarmingly to the right now.

Steve struggled to his feet, doing his best to ignore the blaring alarms, and helped Becca up, concern aching in his chest when she looked at him, expression dazed and bleeding from a cut on her head.

There was a gaping crater in the middle of the floor, and neither Agent Romanoff nor Dr. Banner were anywhere in sight, though Stark was already stumbling back to his feet next to Steve, reaching for Becca in concern, too, as soon as he got his feet under him.

The others remained on the floor for a heartbeat longer, curled in a fetal position to protect their ears and vital organs as they tried to regain their bearings.

“Becca,” Steve wheezed, returning his attention to his roommate, ignoring Tony’s shaking hands pushing her hair from her forehead to look at where she was bleeding, shaking her shoulder a little to get her to focus her misty gaze on him. “Becca, are you okay?”

“Dizzy,” she replied fuzzily, but before either Steve or Stark could say anything, Fury pushed between him and Stark and shoved them from Becca’s side.

“Go. I’ve got her, Captain. Go help the others.”

He blinked at Fury slowly for a long few moments before he nodded, clumsily patting at Tony’s shoulder until he could draw the other man towards the door. “Put on the suit,” he ordered blearily, stumbling into Stark a few times as they tried to leave the room without falling over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much love to Juuls for putting up with me and beta'ing this monster! I couldn't do it without you, doll <3
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT 23/10/2018: Thanks to Aiflenoif for pointing out my spelling error in the name of the exhibit! It's fixed :)


	8. The One with Aliens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> I split this chapter in two because it was getting really long and I didn't want any of it to be lost in a superlong chapter. Much thanks to everyone who's been supporting me through the entire fic, and who is looking forward to the second part of the story, which will bring certain much-loved characters into the fold too ;) 
> 
> The last half of this chapter will be up sometime in the coming week, depending on how many more assignments my professors dump on me :p 
> 
> Much love, Annaelle

## Chapter Eight

—————

_Seventy-five deaths, including civilians and NYPD officers, hundreds of wounded and over eighty-eight billion dollars in property damage._

_These staggering numbers are the final tally of the attack that startled and terrified the world a few days ago. Various sources are still attempting to explain the attack away as a hoax, but there is no denying the distressing amount of structural and property damage._

_…also no denying that it was only thanks to the extra-ordinary heroics and selfless act of the group known only as the Avengers, spearheaded by none other than Captain America himself, that our planet was kept safe. The response to their appearance has been mixed, though the overall view seems to currently be optimistic and grateful._

_In response to New York Senator Conway, who insisted the Avengers be held responsible for the destruction of the city, late New York Senator Proctor’s wife, Dr. Rebecca Proctor, released a statement stating that she and her family wholeheartedly support the Avengers Initiative and that they are most grateful that “these superheroes were willing to risk their lives to save ours. No amount of property damage weighs up against the amount of lives they have saved.”_

_…In other staggering news, S.H.I.E.L.D. has released an official statement that the man behind the shield in New York was indeed Steven Grant Rogers, who has been miraculously revived after spending seventy years trapped in ice._

_…Opinions will likely remain divided, but one thing is certain: we are not alone in the universe anymore, and it is frightening to think on what else might be out there._

_The world as we knew it has, in a sense, come to an end._

— _K.L. Barrow,_ _BBC, ‘Avengers: hoax or not?’_

—————

### Stark Tower med bay, Manhattan, New York, United States of America

### Becca

When she came to, it was to the steady beep of a heart monitor. The sound itself was familiar to her, and though it was comforting—it meant she was _alive_ , that she hadn’t given up, that she hadn’t broken beneath the insistent pressure of her memories—it was also _aggravating_.

She had woken up to hospitals and beeping monitors too often already, and she had little desire to ever do so again.

The light in her room was mercifully dimmed, but the beeping seemed to get louder with each passing heartbeat, insistent on waking her despite her own desire to roll over and sleep for another century and a half more. There was an odd kind of pressure on her stomach and though her ribs didn’t _flare_ with pain each time she took a breath, the ache was constant.

Her head and arms felt too heavy to move, and she’d been in the hospital enough times to know she’d probably be more freaked out if she wasn’t so _exhausted_. She decided immediately not to try to move for a while longer, nausea welling up in the back of her throat as her mind immediately circled back to the events that had actually put her in the hospital in the first place.

She’d… she’d hit her head, hadn’t she?

They’d been arguing, _fighting,_ and she’d… she wasn’t sure what had happened, only that she’d hit her head and Steve and Tony had both been there, helping her up, before they’d… they’d gone to help.

She’d lost a little time there, she thought, because the next thing she recalled was arguing with both Steve and Tony when she tried to suit up to join them on the jet to New York. They’d wanted her to stay behind, to sit back and let the most important people in her life risk their lives without _doing_ anything and she _couldn’t_.

They’d let her come eventually, but she would’ve snuck on board if they hadn’t.

New York had been…

God, New York had been an unmitigated disaster, hadn’t it?

She… she remembered _aliens_ … She remembered fighting, beating an alien’s skull in with its own staff when she’d run out of bullets and Thor desperately roaring his brother’s name after Hulk had gotten his hands on him. She remembered the brief flash of absolute _horror_ on the dark-haired god’s face before his expression had gone icy cold and he and Thor had disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

She remembered… she remembered _Tony_.

She gasped and a sharp bolt of pain shot through her torso, but she didn’t _care_ , because she remembered Tony _falling_. He was falling from a hole in the sky and he wasn’t _stopping_ and they wouldn’t be able to catch him in time, not without Thor—

“Becca? Hey, hey, come on, freckles, _breathe_.”

She choked on a breath, and struggled against the hands that had suddenly appeared on her shoulders, holding her down when all she wanted was to _get up,_ to get to Tony, to ensure that he wasn’t—that he hadn’t—

She blinked blearily, and struggled to breathe past the searing pain in her torso, trying to blink away the blurriness so she could figure out who the hell was holding her down, keeping her from going after Tony, but all she could make out was a large, oddly shaped blob by her side.

It took a few moments before the blob standing by her side, gently holding her down, turned into a more recognizable Clint Barton-shaped blob—and yeah, okay, that made more sense.

She whined wordlessly and pushed against his hold again, struggling weakly, breath hitching at the sharp pain that shot through her entire body before Clint’s hand was suddenly on her cheek, pulling her attention from escaping to find Tony to him, despite her incoherent protests.

“Come on, kiddo,” he chuckled, “use your words.”

“Is Tony okay?” she croaked, swallowing thickly against her dry, achy throat that was likely from the pain medicine, blinking her eyes shut again as she leaned back into her pillows.

“Yeah,” Clint offered with a nod, shifting from his perch over her bed onto the bed itself. “He’s fine. Bruised to fucking hell and bitching about it, but completely fine. You’re the one that gave us a scare, freckles.” He poked at her arm with a grin, and Becca sagged in relief, tension she didn’t even know she carried bleeding from her muscles.

She looked away from Clint for a moment and studied the room. It looked and smelled like a regular hospital room, but the walls were a deep, soothing blue color and the linens were soft and clean, snowy white and warm, and there were no infernal beeping machines anywhere.

There was, she noted with some irritation, an IV in her arm, though.

“Where the shit am I?” she wheezed, weakly slapping at the closest part of Clint’s body, which happened to be his stomach.

“Medical floor in Stark Tower,” Clint shrugged. “Wasn’t damaged in the attack, and Stark wouldn’t let us take you anywhere else.”

“Ugh,” she whined. She didn’t like hospitals, even when they were Tony’s and no one was going to stick needles in her that would make her skin burn and her heart beat so fast she was sure it was going to beat out of her chest. “Where’s that goatee-wearing asshole?”

Clint snorted, patting her head lightly. “I want that nickname in writing,” he beamed, helping her sit up a little and pushing a third cushion behind her back to help her sit comfortably. “You good, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” Becca hummed sleepily. “I might punch you if you try to make me stay any longer than I have to. Don’t like hospitals.”

Clint nodded, patting her arm lightly. “I know you don’t, kiddo. We’ll get you out soon. You lost a lot of blood, though. Freaked us all out pretty bad. You broke three ribs, sprained your wrist, somehow managed to get hit on your head twice and ruptured your spleen. Cap’s furious that you didn’t tell them about your head wound. The one from during the battle.”

Becca wrinkled her nose a little, but conceded the point—Steve had been the most vocal about her not leaving the Helicarrier’s medbay before the battle. “You should see the other guy, though,” she smirked, smiling when Clint snorted out a laugh.

She should have figured Steve would be pissed off about her not telling him about the headache, though.

“Everyone else okay? Steve… Steve okay?” she croaked, rolling her head to the side a little to look at him. She had no idea how much time had passed since she’d fucking swooned like a fair maiden after seeing the prince slay the dragon in her name, but since Clint had showered—his hair was still a little damp—she wagered it’d been at least twenty-four hours.

“Everyone’s okay,” Clint answered soothingly. “No one else got themselves as messed up as you did, kiddo. Tony is, like I said, one big walking bruise and Nat’s sore all over so she’s pissy, but no one was hurt as badly as you. Cap’s with Thor and _Loki_ , figuring shit out. He’s fine.”  

“Good,” she sighed, leaning back against Clint tiredly.

Her eyes drifted shut again of their own accord, and she leaned her head against Clint’s bicep—not as impressive as Thor’s, but still pretty awesome. Obviously the IV in her arm contained a special kind of _powerful_ painkiller, because her head felt nice and fuzzy, and though there was still an odd kind of pressure on her torso and she couldn’t move much, it didn’t actually _hurt_.

She must have dozed off, for a moment, because her eyes snapped open again when the door to her room clicked open and Clint shifted to greet whoever entered.

Blinking blearily, she rolled her head to the side and studied the slim figure of the woman who’d just walked in. Something deep in her chest clenched, and though she wasn’t over the things said during their argument before the Helicarrier—and her head—had taken a hit, she was too tired to make a big deal out of it now.

“You gonna call me a pathetic little girl again?” she asked tightly, though she didn’t register her own words until she felt Clint stiffen slightly beside her.

Oops.

Romanoff at least had the good grace to look a little sheepish and shook her head. “No. And I’m… _sorry_ that I said it in the first place.”

Becca huffed and settled back against Clint, blinking tiredly as the redheaded spy sat in the chair by her bed. “I’d say I was following orders,” she continued, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow as the corner of her mouth lifted in a sardonic little grin. “But it would be a waste of both our time to give voice to such a pathetic excuse.”

“I didn’t mean to… _hurt_ you,” Romanoff added uncomfortably, glancing towards Clint. “…or to ostracize either you or Captain Rogers. We just wanted to make sure he was adjusting well.”

Clint chuckled and raised an eyebrow at Romanoff. “Have you _met_ Steve Rogers? You’d have better luck finding out if you just _asked_ him, like a normal person.”

And well… that was so painfully accurate Becca couldn’t even be bothered to add on to that.

“What he said,” she grumbled, waving her hand lazily in Clint’s direction. Romanoff snorted a laugh, and Becca smiled lightly.

Clint lifted his arm and slipped it around her shoulders, helping her settle against him in a more comfortable position. “You know,” he said conversationally, “usually I insist you buy me dinner first before cuddling in bed, freckles.”

Becca giggled dopily and pressed her nose against his ribs, shaking her head a little. “You ain’t my type, Barton. I’m too gay for your shit.”

“You’re not so gay you weren’t checking out Thor,” Natasha pointed out, and Becca…

Well, she couldn’t exactly _deny_ that.

“ _Everyone_ was checking out Thor,” she argued. “There is not a single person on this planet who can resist the power of those biceps,” she added seriously, raising one very heavy arm to point at Natasha, who only nodded grimly in response, both of them ignoring Clint’s indignant squawk of protest. Becca slumped back onto Clint’s chest, heart aching a little when she noted the red rim beneath Natasha’s eyes. “I’m sorry about Phil,” she said quietly, curling her fingers in Clint’s shirt when she felt him tense. “He was a good guy.”

“Yeah,” Clint breathed, reaching out his hand towards Nat, who took it in both of her own as they all fell silent, the silence between them tinged with sadness and grief, but also soothing enough for Becca to slip into an easy doze again.

“You wanna get on this excellent cuddling? You missed out on that last time,” Becca whined sleepily, blinking open one eye to look at Natasha, who just grinned at her.

“Go back to sleep, kiddo,” Clint chuckled, patting her head gently. “You can’t handle my spider.”

Becca sighed and let her arm drop around his waist, whispering, “I’ve handled your spider, Clint. She’s a real pretty spider.”

“Yeah, she is, kiddo. Go to sleep.”

—————

### Becca

When she next woke, Clint and Nat had gone, but she’d been covered in a thick, colourful quilt that she recognised as the one Clint kept on the couch in his shitty apartment in his shitty building. The sentiment was much appreciated, but her head felt marginally clearer than it had when she’d woken up the first time, and she felt decidedly _worse_ than she had the first time.

Three broken ribs, a concussion, and a ruptured spleen suddenly felt a lot more _real_.

She stared at the ceiling for a long few moments, trying to get the hang of _breathing_ without hurting herself when a soft rustling sound in the doorway caught her attention. She rolled her head to the side with some effort, slightly surprised to find Tony standing there, dressed in jeans that were now filthy and covered in rips and what appeared to be motor oil, but had once likely been fucking Armani and a band shirt. He was uncharacteristically silent and decidedly avoiding her eye, studying the room as though he had another reason to be there than to see her.

“You just gonna stand there?” she croaked, wincing at the uncomfortable pull of skin in her throat, reaching clumsily for the water that stood just beyond her reach on the small bedside table.

Tony remained still for another moment before he burst into motion, helping her to sit up before handing her the glass. She drank gratefully, until the glass was empty and she was slightly breathless, leaning back against the pillows with a small wince. Her ribs ached a little, and she guessed she was being taken off the stronger pain meds and onto more manageable ones.

She glanced at Tony, who stood next to her, eyes downcast to where he was wringing his hands together, and she couldn’t quite suppress a sigh.

She wasn’t really sure what to say to him.

It wasn’t just this situation. It was more than that. They’d always had a somewhat complicated relationship, the two of them. Tony had been Peggy Carter’s only godchild for fifteen years before Becca had been born and become her second godchild, and though Becca had never felt any jealousy from him, she imagined it had been there regardless. They’d been scrutinized as Peggy Carter’s only two godchildren and scions of two famous American families that had already been entwined for decades, and it had made them grow closer despite the sizable age gap.

They’d been thrown together at parties and family get-togethers from the day Becca had been old enough to toddle around on her own at age three, usually doing so while holding Tony’s hand or standing on his lap as he tried to explain the finer points of mechanics to her.

Becca had always loved Tony, though. He’d always been one of her favourite people, and that was what had made what he’d said during their argument on the Helicarrier so much _worse_.

They’d agreed to never bring it up again, and yet there it was.

“I’m still mad at you,” she croaked eventually, taking care to keep her voice even and without much inflection. “For calling me your ‘sloppy seconds’.”

She wasn’t looking at him, but she could tell the words hit him hard nonetheless.

“I know,” he sighed, restlessly twirling on a spinning chair he seemingly pulled out of goddamn nowhere in a blatant attempt to avoid having to actually look her in the eyes. “I… I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

Well.

That took the wind right out of her sails.

She sighed and glared up at the ceiling, swallowing thickly as she tried to find words to describe how _embarrassed_ she had been when Tony brought it up.

“I just…” She shook her head, wincing at the throbbing it caused. “It was _humiliating_ , Tony.”

He startled her when he snorted loudly, hunching forward on his spinning chair. “Right. Because having been with me at some point is the worst thing in the world, right? Wouldn’t want your precious Capsicle to suddenly start thinking less of you.”

She stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving because for _fuck’s_ sake.

“For once,” she cried out in exasperation, ignoring the aching twinge in her ribs. “For _once_ , can you just accept that it’s _not_ about _you_ , Tony? There were two of us there—you keep forgetting that.”

“How is you regretting sleeping with me and refusing to acknowledge it happened not about me?” Tony shouted, throwing his hands up as he pushed up from his spinning chair, anxiously pacing up and down the side of her bed as he glared at her. “There’s not a whole lot of other conclusions to draw, Becca!”

She deflated a little in the face of his indignation, taken aback by the way his shoulders were slumped even when he was standing with thick bags beneath his eyes. His olive skin was pale and the way his eyes darted to every corner of the room suddenly didn’t strike her as awkwardness anymore but restless nerves. She’d seen it on plenty of soldiers before, including Steve and herself, and her heart ached when she realized Tony was probably a hell of a lot more affected by the battle than he was letting on. 

“Tony,” she said gently, lifting one heavy arm to fumble for his hand. “I’m sorry. It’s… It really wasn’t— _isn’t_ —about you. I’m not… I don’t regret you. I regret it because…” she shrugged helplessly and curled her fingers around his when he reluctantly stepped closer to let her touch him. “It could have cost me one of the most important people in my life.”

There was surprise in his gaze when he finally looked at her, and she persisted, no matter how much she _hated_ actually putting it into words.

She hadn’t thought about it since it happened on purpose.

“We were both in a _really_ shitty place in our lives, Tony.” She glanced down at their hands and swallowed thickly. “It wasn’t healthy. I mean, you’d barely been back from Afghanistan _three weeks_. I’d been back from Iraq even less than that. So, no. It wasn’t about you. It was just…” 

She choked, the words sticking in her throat, because even after years of therapy to deal with the issues her captivity in Iraq had left her with, she hadn’t ever said out loud _why_ she regretted her night with Tony.

“It shouldn’t have been anyone,” she finally whispered, the words tearing themselves from her lips almost painfully. “I wasn’t ready for anyone to be that close to me, and I should’ve said no. I didn’t say no, and I have to deal with that.”

When Tony spoke, his voice was hoarse, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were red and he looked as though she’d punched him. “But I made the first move,” he faltered, swaying a little where he stood. “I kissed you. I shouldn’t—I should’ve—”

“No,” she cut in, squeezing her fingers around Tony’s. “No, Tony. I’m a grown woman. I know how to say yes and no. _This_ … This is on me, Tony, not on you. I didn’t tell you no. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have anyway,” he muttered stubbornly, but he didn’t pull away, and after a silence that lasted no longer than a few heartbeats, he seemed to shake himself and offered her that cocky grin she’d grown so used to. “So, believe me now when I tell you your gear is subpar and I could make you something _way_ better?”

She snorted out a laugh, followed promptly by a wince when it aggravated her ribs.

“I don’t usually have to fight aliens when I’m in my gear, Tony,” she pointed out, rolling her eyes a little when he scoffed, eyeing her speculatively. She knew that look—that was his “I’m going to build shit throughout the night and no one can tell me to stop”-look.

“Tony, I don’t need new gear,” she insisted, shooting him a glare.

Tony ignored her entirely and eyed her speculatively. “How do you feel about the colour purple?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, always check the tags and the notes for further trigger warnings! 
> 
> Much thanks to my lovely Juuls, for helping me get this right :)


	9. The One in Asgard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING:  
> Steve gets drunk and kisses Thor before he realises he has no interest in being with anyone but Bucky. Nothing more happens between them. This occurs all the way at the end of the chapter, after Thor and Steve leave the tavern and Steve stumbles against a wall. 
> 
> There is discussion of Loki and Thor's relationship in this chapter as well, but it is important to know they are not siblings in this universe, nor were they raised as such. I went more towards the mythological interpretation of their characters, so there is no incest in this fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> Beyond that, I hope you enjoy this final chapter in this first part of my series :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for going on this journey with me! This was my very first multichaptered Marvel fanfiction, and I'm so happy that I finished it :D I want to give a very big shoutout to my lovely Juulna, without whom I would never have started writing this in the first place, much less published it and finished it. 
> 
> I love you, doll. To the end of the line. 
> 
> Love, Annaelle

## Chapter Nine

_CONFIDENTIAL TRANSCRIPT – OMEGA LEVEL CLEARANCE_

_Extradition of Loki of Asgard_

_Negotiating parties:_

  * _Nicholas J. Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., clearance level Alpha, on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council_
  * _Thor Odinson, Asgardian beneficiary_
  * _Steve Rogers, Captain America, clearance level 4, on behalf of the Avengers_



_Assets to be negotiated:_

  * _Loki of Asgard, prisoner of S.H.I.E.L.D._
  * _Tesseract, currently in possession of S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists for further research_
  * _Loki’s scepter currently in possession of S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists for further research_



_…_

_ROGERS: Let’s keep this simple, gentlemen. Thor would like Loki to be extradited to Asgard so he can stand trial for his part in the crimes committed against us in an Asgardian court. He also insists the Tesseract and Loki’s sceptre be released to him too, since they are too dangerous to be allowed to remain on Earth unchecked._

_FURY: I have no intention of allowing any of those things._

_ODINSON: By Odin’s beard, you will not keep my brother from me! He shall return to Asgard to face Asgardian justice—_

_ROGERS: Okay, okay, let’s stay calm. Thor, sit down, put the hammer down. Fury, there must be a way to find compromise in this situation. No one on Earth is properly equipped to deal with imprisoning someone of Loki’s caliber on the long term, and the Tesseract can easily fall in the wrong hands while still on Earth. Same goes for the sceptre._

_FURY: (short silence) I could be persuaded._

—Transcript from S.H.I.E.L.D. mission report, _Avengers Initiative_ , July 2011

—————

### Queen Frigga’s private gardens, Royal Palace, Asgard  

### Steve

Steve’s breath was ragged and fast by the time he made his escape from the stuffy atmosphere of Asgard’s so-called court. The emotion in the room was stifling, and though Steve had been sent along _because_ S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to ensure Loki would receive punishment for the deaths he had caused, he did not think it was his place to witness the agony Thor’s family had seemingly caused each other.

Frigga, Queen-Mother and kind hostess to Steve from the moment he had set foot in her lands, had clearly sensed his discomfort and aided him in slipping out unnoticed, guiding him towards a private corner in her gardens.

“Thank you,” he offered awkwardly, turning and bowing for the Queen. “I know it’s not my place to see things that should remain between family.”

Frigga merely smiled sadly and shook her head. “My husband is not without failings. For all his wisdom, he fails to see that all Loki has ever wanted was his approval.” She sighed and gestured around as she collected herself. “I leave you here, where you will not be disturbed. I must return to my family to ensure the trial goes smoothly.”

Steve nodded hastily, unsure of the meaning behind the words she had shared, and sank into another clumsy imitation of a bow. “Thank you again,” he said. “For your kindness.”

Frigga nodded regally and turned, moving back towards the hidden entrance they had emerged from before she stopped and half-turned, waving one hand gracefully towards a stone bench. “On the bench you will find a gift, Captain. Something to occupy your time pleasurably, I hope.”

Before Steve could reply, or stutter out another fumbled expression of gratitude, she began moving once more, and disappeared behind the hidden door.

He stood still, for a moment, in the middle of the garden and _breathed_ , regaining his bearings for the first time since he had set foot on Asgardian soil. The city, from what Steve had been able to observe, was not too dissimilar to cities back on Earth—to New York and Brooklyn itself—and filled with loud, boisterous people, dressed in bright colors and wearing broad smiles.

The palace, in contrast, was more subdued, but no less quiet.

Steve had never met royalty on Earth, but the Asgardian royal family—with the exception of Thor, who he had fought with, who he had seen covered in dirt and blood after battle—seemed to be _exactly_ what Steve had always imagined royalty to be like.

The Howling Commandos had run a mission in Vienna, Austria once, only months before they’d taken the mission on the train. It had been a rescue-recovery mission, brass sending the Howlies in to help an undercover operative who was days away from getting caught get away clean—they wouldn’t normally be sent on a mission like this, but the undercover agent was the general’s godson and…

 _Politics_.

They’d been guided through the city’s extensive underground sewer system by an Austrian resistance fighter, who had regaled them with tales of the former Habsburg Emperor who used to live in the palace they were headed towards. The woman had been a servant in the palace during the last few years of the Emperor’s life and knew the place inside and out—which was likely why she was the one showing them how to get their guy out without being detected.

Steve remembered that he’d been blown away by the immensity of the palace—Schönbrunn, they’d called it—and that even Bucky had been stunned into silence as they snuck into the palace through servant passages and unused rooms.

Steve had barely been able to believe that _one_ person, _one_ family, owned this palace, and more than a few others like it, less than thirty years ago.

He had seen the palaces and the courtyards, had witnessed the _immensity_ of what one royal family’s riches could behold—

And none of it compared to what he saw in Asgard.

The Asgardian palace was built into the city structure, with tunnels and corridors running from the heart of the city, where the main palace stood, to the very outskirts, where farmers worked their lands much like they did on Earth and produced plentiful crops to feed themselves and those that dwelled in the city itself.

He had not experienced a quiet moment from the second he had arrived, the city and palace, and all that those entailed, surrounding him right from the start, but now—

Steve looked around the garden again and exhaled, loosening the tension in his muscles and rolling his head back and forth a couple of times. The garden was lush and beautiful, and so _quiet_ Steve almost felt like he had stepped into a different planet altogether.

The garden, though clearly constructed so it was part of the palace’s structure, was entirely isolated, but big enough that Steve could hear the rush of a waterfall somewhere nearby. A little ahead, he could see the edges of a small, ethereal blue lagoon, surrounded by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of different kinds of plants and trees in every shade of green, brown, and yellow that Steve could possibly imagine. The lake bed was dotted with bright splashes of color, flowers that grew tall and beautiful, with scents so sweet it made him a little dizzy.

There was a sense of tranquility to this part of the planet that soothed Steve’s otherwise buzzing mind.  

He remained standing for another few moments, breathing in the calm atmosphere, before he moved, slowly sauntering towards the stone bench Frigga had indicated.

There, in the middle of the bench’s surface, she had somehow placed a truly _gorgeous_ sketchbook. Its cover was made of thick, deep red leather, embossed with symbols he vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place. There was a note, stuck underneath the leather strap that held the sketchbook closed, and Steve could tell the curled, slanted handwriting was Frigga’s right away.

It just _looked_ right.

 _‘Captain_ ,’ it said, _‘Please accept this meager gift as gratitude from a mother who had both sons returned to her by your tireless efforts. Thor informed me of your talents and your faith in him, even though you knew nothing of him, and I had this made for you. There are pencils and charcoals in the pouch, the best Asgard has to offer, that will never run out. I hope it will bring you as much joy as you did me, when you returned my sons to me.’_

It was signed with Frigga’s name in elaborately curled handwriting, and Steve could, embarrassingly, feel tears of gratitude burn in his eyes.

His hands trembled a little when he reached for the small leather pouch, made of the same handsome red leather as the sketchbook, and a harsh breath fell from his lips when he rolled it open to find, as Frigga had promised in her letter, three pencils and a few stubs of charcoal, of quality beyond anything he had ever been able to afford in Brooklyn.

It was, probably, one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for him.

He sat then, running his fingers over the embossed leather cover over and over again, staring into the distance for an unfathomable amount of time before he flipped it open onto the first page and pulled one of the charcoals from the little leather loop that held it in place.

He lost time for a while after that.

When he consciously looked at the sketch again, he had drawn Bucky, as he was wont to do when he did not pay attention to himself, stretched out on the lush grass of the gardens like he didn’t have a care in the world—and a soft sob fell from Steve’s lips before he could stop himself.

Bucky would have _loved_ Asgard.

He would have endeared himself with Frigga immediately, Steve was sure, and would have had every single one of the maids eating out of the palm of his hand in no time at all.

It _ached_ still, thinking of Bucky like this, but Steve was surprised that it didn’t paralyze him anymore.

Thinking of Bucky still _hurt_ , still made the edges of his shattered heart and soul throb, but the pain wasn’t so overwhelming anymore that he couldn’t remember _loving_ Bucky. The good memories he had of his best friend didn’t feel so very distant anymore, and though it was still hard to think of him, Steve didn’t shrink away from the memories that pushed their way to the forefront of his mind.

He didn’t shy away from thinking about the Howlies and Peggy, of the way they’d become the bigger family he had never had, but had always wanted.

Though there had been a war raging around them, they’d made the most of it, telling stories around campfires, the boys all ribbing on Steve for the whole Captain America thing and outright laughing at Bucky for the role propaganda had assigned to him, and lying through their teeth when brass questioned them a little too far about their methods when they were deep in enemy territory.

They’d been a bunch of misfits, but they’d been _Steve’s_.

He sat there, for an indeterminate time longer, sketching, lost within memories, barely aware of the silent tears that streaked down his cheeks until a teardrop splashed down on the page, blurring one of the charcoal lines that defined Bucky’s arm.

He didn’t look up when the hidden door opened, nor when Thor settled on the bench beside him, his fingers lingering on the curve of Bucky’s smile. “You know,” Steve said quietly, not looking at Thor just yet. “I think you would have liked him. And he would have _loved_ … this.” He waved his hand at their surroundings vaguely and shrugged. “He always did like the idea of other worlds out there.”

Thor remained silent for a moment, before he spoke, his otherwise booming voice calm and quiet. “I would like to have met him. Your loyalty to his memory speaks volumes of his character.”

 A soft, incredulous laugh fell from Steve’s lips before he could stop it, and he rubbed at the tears still drying on his cheeks roughly, shaking his head a little to clear it of the memories that kept him, momentarily, trapped in the past. “I guess,” he sighed, allowing himself one more heartbeat to stare at the charcoal rendition of Bucky in his sketchbook before he flipped it closed and returned the charcoal pencil to the pouch.

“Mother told me where she had hidden you,” Thor finally spoke again, keeping his voice low and soft. “I apologize, for not being a better host, and for allowing myself to be swept up by familial matters. I should have recognized that Asgard would be quite overwhelming for you. My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Steve shrugged, drawing his lower lip between his teeth when he glanced towards Thor. “How was court? Any decisions made?”

Thor’s sunny disposition disappeared like snow to the sun and he scowled, shaking his head. “Only insofar that Loki will be confined to our wing of the palace rather than the dungeons.”

Steve nodded and studied the pained look on Thor’s face carefully. He had heard that part of Thor’s impassioned plea against his brother being locked in the dungeons.

_“You cannot!” Thor argued, “Father, he is my brother, my betrothed! You cannot lock him away as though he’s some kind of common thief! His actions were not his own!”_

Steve had escaped the room with Frigga’s aid soon after that fierce declaration, cheeks burning and mind spinning as he tried to make sense of what he knew and what he’d heard.

Thor had referred to Loki as his brother almost exclusively when they spoke about him on Earth, but Steve didn’t doubt that the word ‘betrothed’ meant exactly what it did on Earth, and he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “Is he truly your brother?”

Thor froze, eyes wide and eyebrows arched high on his forehead, and Steve flinched at his own lack of tact. “That’s not—” he amended quickly. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. You called him your betrothed in court, I just… I suppose I’m just curious.”

Thor didn’t need to answer for Steve to know that the two were close, regardless of their familial bond—or lack of one. The closeness was easily evidenced by the casualness of the affection Steve had witnessed between the two men—intimacy so inherent to their gestures that he couldn’t help but conclude that they had to be as close, if not closer, than Steve and Bucky had been.

Thor, thankfully, didn’t seem to take offence to Steve’s fumbled inquiry and settled back a little, pushing his fingers through his long blond locks, separating the golden strands from a thin, delicate braid, before he responded.

“He is my brother,” Thor replied simply, curling the thin braid around his finger. “In all but blood. Loki and I were betrothed when we were no more than babes.”

Steve eyed the braid curiously, noting that it appeared to be two strands of Thor’s hair and one strand of much darker, black hair twisted together. “So,” Steve said slowly, frowning a little as he tried to make sense of what Thor had revealed so far. “You’re married? Or… _getting_ married?”

“Well,” Thor drawled, nose wrinkling as he considered his answer. “Not yet. Loki is not even of proper marrying age. He is much too young, as am I. It will not be expected of us until we have both hit our second millennium. But one day, when I am king, then yes, we will be wedded.”

Steve stared, for a moment, and leaned back as far as he could without falling clean off the bench.

“So are you… like, in love with him?” Immediately following his words, Steve wanted to thump himself on the head for pushing far beyond what was socially acceptable. “Don’t answer that,” he added immediately, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I’m sorry.”

Thor only chuckled and clapped Steve on the shoulder brightly. “No need for apologies, Captain. I understand our ways may seem odd to you. To answer, yes, of course I love Loki.” The tall blond shrugged and offered Steve a truly entirely disarming smile. “It is, right now, the love one sibling has for another, but in time, I am sure it will evolve along with our lives.”

That made sense in its own way, Steve supposed.

“Why would he do something like this, then?” Steve prompted curiously, frowning a little. It had been the one thing he could not figure out after watching Loki and Thor interact with each other, especially after reading the file S.H.I.E.L.D. had put together on Loki’s attack on Earth the previous year.

Somehow, every action Loki had taken against Earth seemed to tie back to Thor.

The man himself, Steve saw, actually looked somewhat uncomfortable for the first time since Steve had begun his line of questioning. “It is a complicated tale,” Thor admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “And I admit to playing my part in pushing Loki into committing the actions he did in the past.” Steve watched as Thor heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. “I never thought he would try to attack Earth _twice_ though.”

Steve remained quiet, allowing the other man to collect his thoughts before he spoke again. “Loki… _We_ were raised believing Loki was the son of a noble family that had lost its life during the war with Jotunheim. As my father told it, he and this family had entered into a marriage contract between us before Loki’s birth, and when they perished during the war, he took Loki in, as duty dictated.”

Steve frowned and bit his lip confusedly. “I’m guessing that wasn’t true?”

Thor shook his head sadly. “Nay. My father took in Loki in the aftermath of the war with Jotunheim, yes, but he did not take him from an Asgardian family.”

It dawned on him, suddenly, and Steve felt a little bad on Loki’s behalf. To find your entire life had been a lie could hardly be an easy feat to get over, especially with less-than-supportive family. “He was from this… _Jotunheim_?”

The name fell from his tongue clumsily, but Thor nodded shakily nonetheless.

“The royal family, even,” Thor sighed, slumping forward to bury his face in his hands. “I did not learn of any of this until after Loki had sent the Destroyer to Earth, but it was too late. He convinced himself I would never love a Frost Giant and that Father would never allow his son to actually marry one to rule as my Queen-Consort. He—I—”

He cut off, voice thick with unspoken emotions and unshed tears, and Steve _felt_ for him.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, tentatively reaching out to pat Thor’s shoulder. “I—I can’t imagine—”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Thor sat up and shook his head, rubbing his fingers over his eyes tiredly. “It is done. Loki was misguided, and during this latest assault on Earth he was driven by an ambition that was not his own… I will not allow his life to be taken because someone manipulated him into furthering their own agenda.”

“Wait,” Steve drew back, startled and a little nauseated. “They’re not gonna _execute_ him, right?”

Steve had been under the impression that Frigga and several völva’s—women trained in the use of seiðr, Steve had been informed—had confirmed that the sceptre Loki had used to control others had controlled him in turn.

He was not entirely _innocent_ , but he was certainly not entirely culpable either.

Thor looked at Steve with something akin to pity in his eyes and smiled sadly. “Captain, the only reason they _haven’t_ executed him is because Mother and I stood in their way and refused to let them.”

Steve gaped, nausea curling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Loki simply being killed in spite of the fact that he had been controlled. “They can’t just do that,” he shook his head, anger burning in his veins. “It’s not—they should—”

“Steve,” Thor shook his head sadly. “The attempted taking of one of the Nine Realms is a crime punishable by death. The same crime was committed by King Laufey of Jotunheim—it is why Asgard went to war with them. To have Loki repeat such crime is…” Thor sighed heavily and tugged on the thin braid. “Father would punish this attempt severely, if not for my and Mother’s interference.”

“But they can’t just kill him,” Steve spluttered weakly.

Thor shook his head—amused, Steve assumed, at Steve’s indignant spluttering—and offered him a small smile. “Loki will not be executed, Captain. I will not allow it, nor will mother.”

The unwavering conviction in Thor’s voice soothed Steve’s indignation on Loki’s behalf somewhat, and he leaned back a little. “Good,” he nodded staunchly, twisting his fingers together. “Good.”

They sat silently for a while, both relishing in the soft warmth of the sun breaking through the leaves, before Steve drew his lip between his teeth. They’d been on Asgard for less than a day, but Steve was fairly sure they’d be there for at least a few days more…

It was _that_ that bothered Steve.

He’d barely had time to _breathe_ after the battle, to check on the rest of the team—on _Becca_ —before him, Thor and Loki had been bundled up and sent to Asgard.

Thor had assured him that time worked differently in Asgard, though—a fact that had nearly sent Steve tripping headfirst into a panic attack when he’d first been told. Time ran faster on Asgard, Thor had explained, so that weeks on Asgard often wasn’t more than a couple of _days_ on Earth.

However, the petrifying possibility of losing time again, even a few hours, had kept Steve up for _days_ on end when he had first been defrosted, and when Thor had told him Asgard’s timeline was different, he’d nearly slipped back into that poisonous mind-set all over again.  

He’d only managed to keep himself under control because he knew that he would get the long end of the stick.

For him, it would be a week or more.

For everyone on Earth—for _Becca_ , who’d still been in Tony’s make-shift hospital in the Tower, unconscious after collapsing during the battle—it would be no more than a day or so.  

Steve… Steve was pretty sure he could live with that.

“How long do you think their discussions will take?” Steve asked, nodding towards the hidden door and the court that lay beyond it. “Things were getting pretty heated before I left.”

Thor frowned at the question and shrugged. “I must say there has never been a trial quite like this one in all of Asgard’s history. I don’t know how long it will take.” Steve startled a little when Thor clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile. “I have asked Heimdall to inform us should the lady Barnes awaken before our return. Worry not, Captain, I shall not keep you from your new love for very long.”

“What?” Steve spluttered, eyes wide and cheeks burning as he reeled back. “God, _no_. Becca’s not my _anything_ , Thor. She’s Bucky’s niece, it’d be—she’s my _friend_. She’s family.”

“Ah,” Thor laughed, patting Steve’s shoulder again. “Apologies then. I fear I let overheard rumours guide my assumptions.” Steve wrinkled his nose in annoyance—he’d only been exposed to the S.H.I.E.L.D. rumour mill for a few days, but he already loathed it more than the propaganda during the war that had insisted on using his and Peggy’s tentative _possible_ feelings for one another to further their own agendas.

“It’s fine,” he sighed eventually, dragging his fingers through his hair. “You’re not the first to believe it, and I’m sure you’re not gonna be the last.”

Thor snorted and chuckled, before pushing himself off the bench and onto his feet. “Come, Captain,” he said with a smile. “Our tongues have been occupied with too many heavy subjects of late. My brother is safe, for now, as is your Lady Barnes. Let us celebrate with mead and friends.”

Steve looked up at him dubiously, eyeing the hand Thor held out to him hesitantly. “I can’t get drunk,” he said, “I’ve tried.” It was a token protest, really, when Thor had already clasped his hand around Steve’s forearm and dragged him to his feet, laughing joyously.

“You have not tried with Asgardian mead, Captain. I assure you, intoxication will swiftly follow.”

This was a terrible idea.

—————

### Steve

This was a great idea.

Asgardian mead was _awesome_.

Steve shouldn’t have doubted Thor’s word, because less than ten minutes after he’d finished his first cup, the tavern had gone a little fuzzy around the edges in a way Steve hadn’t been able to experience in _years_. He felt warm and flushed and, sometimes, when he blinked too rapidly, all the colours seemed to blend together into a psychedelic blur.

Thor’s friends were _really_ cool, and lady Sif was _so_ pretty and Steve got tongue-tied around her every time she turned to him to say something. She didn’t seem deterred by his inability to form coherent sentences in her presence, though, and had dragged him out to dance, despite his stuttered protests.

It had been the most fun he’d had in _years_.

No one _cared_ , here. No one cared that he wasn’t behaving in an earnest, serious way here. No one cared that he was getting drunk and shirking his responsibilities for a night.

No one blinked twice when, after Sif had carted him around the little dance floor, Fandral pulled Steve close and danced with him while telling some of the _dirtiest_ jokes Steve had ever heard—which was quite a feat for someone who had been close friends with Dum Dum Dugan.

They’d been drinking since the early hours of the evening, and by the time the barmaid had brought over their meals, Steve was far beyond caring about whatever the hell he was consuming—it had been warm and delicious, and the conversation had been amusing and filled with teasing and laughter, and though Steve didn’t know Thor, Sif, and the so-called Warriors Three very well, their company definitely made him feel more at home than he had felt since he’d woken up a month ago.

“No, no, no,” Steve laughed, uselessly pushing against Thor’s hands as the larger man tried to pull him back towards the dance floor. “I’m a useless dancer—Bucky was the one who liked to dance.”

“Ah Captain,” Thor beamed—and Steve’s breath caught, just for a moment, to have _that_ smile directed at him—dragging a highly uncooperative Steve to his feet. “Not to worry, I shall teach you.” He then proceeded to drag Steve forward, to the edge of the dance floor and clumsily led him into what was likely meant to be some kind of Asgardian waltz.

In reality, it consisted mostly of Steve either stepping on Thor’s toes and apologizing profusely, or Steve tripping over his own feet and Thor catching him as though he were a swooning dame. Steve, admittedly, _had_ felt a little like he was a swooning dame, cradled in Thor’s arms, but even with the pleasant buzz he had going, he didn’t feel entirely comfortable _admitting_ that.

They collapsed back at the table together, still grinning like children, while Hogun wrinkled his nose at them and shook his head. “That was embarrassing to watch!”

“Aye!” Volstag boomed, downing the remainder of his tankard of mead sloppily. “You—” he pointed towards Thor with a grimace. “You should be _ashamed_ , Odinson! You took dancing lessons for _decades_. Your mother taught you better than that!”

Sif nodded in agreement, but she seemed mostly occupied by making gagging noises at Fandral, who had somehow charmed his way into the barmaid’s arms and was, apparently, preoccupied by the lady’s tongue in his mouth.

Steve wrinkled his nose in disgust. It _was_ a rather unseemly display to have in public.

His cheeks flushed nonetheless, even as he turned to voice his opinion to Thor, but his words died in his throat when he caught sight of the blond god with a lapful of his own barmaid—a beautiful brunette with full, pink lips and pink cheeks and her fingers curled in Thor’s long locks as they kissed.

“Oh,” Steve said dumbly, cheeks _burning_ as he turned back to lady Sif abruptly.

She grinned at him, clapping her hand on his forearm. “What, do they not have revels on Midgard?”

“No,” Steve blurted, his entire face burning when Sif began laughing. “No, I mean, _yes_! Of course we have parties and things like this,” he waved his hand at the tavern. “I just…” He glanced over his shoulder towards Thor and winced a little. “I thought he and Loki were—”

“Ah,” Sif nodded in understanding, shrugging a little. “They are, but they are not. Loki has no desire to share Thor’s bed, though I’m sure Thor _is_ interested. They’ve an arrangement, I believe. As long as Loki has no interest in being with Thor in a romantic fashion, he does not mind if Thor seeks such attentions elsewhere.”

“Ah,” Steve said eloquently, and promptly grabbed his tankard of mead again, feeling all too sober again—he missed the pleasant warmth the buzz had brought with it, and the light-heartedness it had made him feel, enough so that he had been able to stop _thinking_ for a while.

He rapidly downed the entire thing, much to Sif and Volstag’s delight, but it was Thor—when he pulled himself away from his lovely dame—who noticed the downturn in Steve’s mood.

Steve hadn’t even properly thought about it himself, but when Thor grasped his shoulder, dragging Steve’s attention back to the taller man, the reason for the decline in his mood, in spite of his increased consumption of Asgardian mead, was so obvious, Steve wondered at his skills of observation for a moment.

It… it _rankled_ inside of him, the idea of Thor being involved with someone else while he was promised to Loki, while Loki still looked at him like he was _everything_.

It rankled that even _Steve_ himself had looked at Thor as _desirable_ when Thor wasn’t _his_ to look at.

“Are you well, Captain?” Thor inquired worriedly, his fingers digging into the muscle of Steve’s shoulder. “You have gone quite pale all of a sudden.”

Steve stared at Thor for a moment, blinking as he tried to find a way to give voice to his thoughts that wouldn’t offend the other man, but the mead had loosened his tongue, and all he could blurt out was, “Are you really sure Loki doesn’t mind you sleeping with others?”

Thor reeled back, surprised, obviously, but before Steve could apologize, Thor frowned and nodded. “It is something I take great care in ensuring. Loki knows he needs only say the word. It is entirely his choice when our relationship will evolve to a newer stage, Captain.”

Steve’s cheeks were _burning_ by now, and he’d been wishing the floor would swallow him right up since the moment the words had fallen from his lips, but Thor seemed to pay no mind to Steve’s rudeness or embarrassment. “Tell me, Captain, why does Loki’s state of mind interest you so on this matter? Most,” he waved absently to the Warriors Three and Sif, who were loudly arguing over a game of cards, “accept my word as truth. What makes you different?”

“I’ve been in his shoes,” Steve blurted quietly, dropping his gaze to his hands as his stomach twisted uncomfortably. “When Bucky and I—” He shook his head and offered Thor a wry smile. “You gotta understand, people didn’t like folks like me and Buck. _Queers_. We had to keep up appearances, and since no dame looked at me twice before the serum…”

He’d known Bucky liked going out with dames about as much as Steve liked him going out with dames, but in the end, Steve had always been the one stuck at home, waiting for Bucky to come back to him with lipstick marks on his skin and a vague hint of perfume on his collar.

“I knew it was necessary, but I didn’t like it,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.”

When he looked up, the expression on Thor’s face was more compassionate than Steve would have expected, and he was surprised when the other man curled their fingers together for a brief moment. “I assure you,” Thor responded seriously. “I will ensure I never cause Loki to feel such hurt.”

Steve nodded shakily and smiled a wobbly smile. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Thor beamed at him— _Jesus, Mary and Joseph,_ Steve needed to get a hold of himself—and clapped his hand on Steve’s shoulder again. “Excellent! Now, would you like to hear a joke, Steven?”

“I—” Steve sputtered, a little taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “I guess.”

“I would as well,” Thor boomed, turning towards his friends. “Fandral, pull yourself together and amuse us with a tale of your exploits!” Steve laughed, surprised, but allowed himself to be pulled back into the merry mood of the group, his brief moment of sorrow forgotten.

They spent many hours more in the tavern, caught up in pleasant company, drinks and games, but to his credit, Thor stayed with the group and did not stray again, refraining from pursuing more pleasurable activities. Steve was sure he did it only for Steve’s benefit after he’d shared the little bit of his past with Thor, but he did appreciate the gesture.

When they finally left the tavern, in the early hours of the morning, their arms were slung around each other’s shoulders, because Steve, admittedly, wasn’t feeling so very steady on his feet anymore, even though he felt pleasantly warm and relaxed, the Asgardian mead warming him from the pit of his belly to the very tips of his fingers.

They stumbled, grinning and shoving at each other playfully, until Steve tripped backwards, catching himself on a wall seconds before he could face-plant into the dirt. “Oops,” he laughed, cheeks burning as Thor laughed, loudly and cheerfully, pressing back against the wall, because _obviously_ walking wasn’t the best idea anymore.

“Dear, dear Captain,” Thor grinned, stumbling forward until he was suddenly so close Steve could feel the heat of his body on his own skin, effectively trapping Steve between Thor’s body and the wall.

Oh. _Oh_. 

“It seems,” Thor said huskily—and _oh, that voice did things to him_ —bracing his left hand up against the wall beside Steve’s head. “You cannot handle your liquor so very well.” His right hand had somehow curled around Steve’s hip, warm and strong and entirely unyielding, his breath warm against Steve’s lips.

 _Christ_ , how did he get himself into situations like these?

His breath caught when Thor shifted ever closer, and his heart pounded as his head spun, because he was still a little sauced, and _Lord_ , he _wanted—_

But he wasn’t sure if he should—if he was ready, if he would _regret_ —

He tilted his head up willingly when Thor’s fingers trailed up from his hip to his jaw. The tips of Thor’s fingers were warmer and softer than Steve would have expected from a hardened warrior like Thor, and when he was close like this, Thor seemed to _glow_. Steve had never really seen him as otherworldly as much as he did in this moment.

“Tell me you do not want me to do this, Steve,” Thor whispered, and Steve swore his knees nearly gave out from beneath him.

“I can’t,” he replied shakily, fingers trembling when he reached up to tangle his fingers in Thor’s long locks. Thor didn’t wait for Steve to say anything else and leaned down to kiss him, pressing his warm, full lips against Steve’s.

The kiss remained chaste for a few heartbeats before Thor licked into Steve’s mouth, slipping his tongue in alongside Steve’s, pressing their bodies together like he couldn’t _bear_ not touching Steve.

It was… it was _hot_ and it didn’t feel anything like the hundreds of times Steve had been kissed by Bucky, but it was _the same_ and made him feel _sick_ and confused. Beyond all that, he still _wanted_ , even though he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

His entire body _hummed_ , almost like the lightning he had seen Thor fight with was transferring from his touch into Steve’s skin, and he couldn’t hold back a deep, guttural groan, dragging Thor closer. At some point, Thor had slipped his hands down to Steve’s ass and was grinding down against him and Steve didn’t know how to _think_ anymore—how to do _anything_ but kiss Thor back.

Thor leaned back slowly and broke the kiss, and Steve’s breath fell from his lips in shaking, short bursts, fingers still tangled in Thor’s hair. The nausea that crept up on him didn’t hit him until a full heartbeat later, when his mind started spinning again, when he reminded himself of _Bucky_ , of the man he loved even though he wasn’t—he wasn’t _here_ —

“I can’t,” he breathed, shaking his head desperately as tears _burned_ in his eyes again, averting his eyes from Thor even as he let his fingers slip from Thor’s golden locks. “I _can’t_. I—he’s—”

“Oh, Steve,” Thor said quietly, and Steve didn’t have to _look_ , he _knew_ , he knew that Thor would shift his touch from sensual to comforting in a heartbeat, that physical affection was the way the taller man showed that he _cared_ , to all people, but he didn’t know if he could bear it right now.

“No,” he pushed at Thor’s chest weakly, slowly. “Please, no. I can’t do this. I love him. I can’t not love him, even if he’s not with me anymore.”

 “Don’t fret,” the god spoke, confidently but softly. “Love like yours… it has no end. He is with you.”

They stood in silence for a moment and Steve struggled, fighting down the _guilt_ , the self-loathing that welled up deep inside him the moment his lips pressed against Thor’s—

“If your heart was not spoken for,” Thor said softly, a kind smile on his lips. “If mine had not been claimed long before you had been born…”

The simplicity of the acknowledgement of what could have been between them both startled Steve and made him smile, because it was _exactly_ what he had come to expect from the god. “Yeah,” he nodded, letting Thor’s touch linger for a moment longer before he drew himself away. “But I am spoken for, even if he’s gone. And so are you. I could,” he swallowed thickly, eyeing Thor nervously. “I could use a friend, though.”

Thor’s responding smile was brilliant, and the other man nodded. “I think you will make a fine shield brother, Steve Rogers. I would be proud to call you my friend.”

—————

### Undisclosed Hydra base

### Alexander Pierce

“So you say his programming began to deteriorate during the Battle of New York?”

The technician in front of him fidgeted nervously, eyes flickering towards the dark figure currently looming threateningly in the corner, despite the gag and the heavy handcuffs, tying him to the wall, specifically designed to hold a supersoldier. “It… it looks that way, Sir. We barely managed to apprehend him before he ran into the Avengers and Captain America. He nearly killed four men when he caught sight of the Captain, trying to get to him.”

Pierce frowned at the furious Asset in the corner, tilting his head a little as he considered his options.

He, of course, knew who the Asset had once been.

It was interesting that the sight of the Captain would still evoke such a powerful response in the Asset, even after seventy years of conditioning. The Barnes girl had thrown a wrench in his plans when she had taken the good Captain from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody before he could mould the man into something he could work with, but this…

He eyed the Asset speculatively.

He could work with this.

**To be continued**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently still working on the second part of the story, but I do have a few deleted scenes that I wrote for this part but that didn't make it into the final cut due to various reasons. These deleted scenes will be cleaned up and added to the series in the interval between this final chapter and the first one of Part II. 
> 
> I will start uploading Part II (which will actually have a lot more Stucky than this one does, promise) when I have finished it entirely, to avoid long waits between updates. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me! I hope to see you all again soon! 
> 
> Much, much love,  
> Annaelle 
> 
> PS I have tumblr! Come say hi!


	10. Sequel notification

The first chapter for the sequel to this little monster is now up! 

 

Thanks for your continued support, darlings! See you there :D 

 

Love, Annaelle

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Leave a comment/kudos <3 
> 
> Until next week!


End file.
